Playing House
by BookishGal
Summary: A sequel to "Breaking Free." Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling test the waters of their new relationship. Rated M for occasional language, violence, and sexually suggestive content.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** This is a direct sequel to my earlier story "Breaking Free," taking place approximately three weeks after the final scene, in June 1993.

I'm always interested in hearing what readers have to say about a story, good or bad, so feel free to speak up in the comments/reviews or send me a PM. I try to respond promptly to everyone who has PMs enabled for review replies.

**Disclaimer:** Nothing is mine but the use of these particular words in this particular order. Everything else goes home to its proper copyright owner at last call.

* * *

><p>Hannibal Lecter laid the knife on the counter and carefully wiped his hands.<p>

The phone rang a second time. Not the house phone, no; this was the mobile phone he had obtained for this singular purpose.

"Guten Morgen."

"It's done; the package is on its way."

"All went well, I trust?"

"She seemed suspicious, like you said, but it looked like the letter helped."

"And the other?"

"No one followed her off the plane. No one met her at the gate. No one picked up her trail at the airport. No last-minute suspicious ticket-buyers at the station."

Excellent. It seemed this was to be a true holiday and not an exercise in evading Jack Crawford's little minions. _Such trust, Clarice?_

"Very well. The remaining funds will be wired to your account within the hour."

"It's been a pleasure. You need anything else—"

"I will be certain to call upon you should that be the case. Auf Wiedersehen."

The doctor ended the call, placed the phone back on the table, and picked up the knife once more. He had time yet before he must meet Clarice. He hummed as he worked. He would not suppress the thrill of anticipation their meeting invoked; no, that he would savor, as he did each feeling she inspired.

_She is coming. To me. I must prepare a proper welcome. _

* * *

><p>The lack of butterflies in her stomach no longer surprised Clarice Starling.<p>

As the train pulled away from the station, she was calm, relaxed… happy. _Destination Hannibal Lecter. _She was, she suspected, the only person in the world for whom the very idea was not unnerving.

But she had done her thinking already. She wouldn't have contacted him at all if the benefits hadn't outweighed the risks. It was that certainty that had allowed her to slumber, untroubled, all the way across the Atlantic, from D.C. to Paris.

That same certainty had permitted her to set aside her apprehension when her name came over the announcement system, a polite, feminine voice directing her in accented English to a courtesy desk. He had left a letter for her there, a reassurance and challenge both, with the train ticket – and American travel documents with her photo under the name Caroline Bell – tucked inside.

The letter now lay folded in the slim pocket on the outside of her carryon. The small bag and a medium-sized suitcase had accompanied her on the trip. She'd asked Ardelia for help packing, laughing and joking all the while about the fabulous men she'd be sure to meet during her weeklong vacation in Paris, as though the women still shared the close friendship they appeared to on the surface.

And if they had… if she were still that woman… well, the doctor had prepared for that, too. Of course he had.

Clarice fished the letter out of her bag and held it close as she re-read his words, her fingers lightly rubbing against the heavy paper.

**Dear Clarice,**

**Are you still determined to embark on this mad adventure? What of Uncle Jack and the nobility and justice of the FBI? Do they mean nothing to you, my dear?**

**Perhaps you'll find they do, indeed, mean more to you than the promise of my company. Should that be the case, Clarice, please, make use of the enclosed reservations. The accommodations, alas, are not what I would choose for you, but they do fit within your undoubtedly limited budget. **

**If you are not tempted by the prospect of a week in Paris on your own, Clarice, I do hope you'll find the train ticket more to your liking. Does it excite you to know I am waiting?**

**Would you tell me if it did?**

**Pleasant journey, Clarice.**

**Fondly,**

**Hannibal**

The train was taking her to Saarbrucken. She'd never heard of it, but the guidebook she'd grabbed before boarding the train seemed to think it was a decently sized German economic and cultural center on the French border. Hardly D.C., but a hell of a lot bigger than anything Montana or West Virginia had to offer.

_Deficiencies of the American educational system showing once more, Clarice? Americans are a rather insular breed. Had your father lived, you might have spent your entire life on a tiny patch of land in the West Virginia hills. Church on Sundays, a ring on your finger and a good ol' boy in your bed, a new baby to keep you occupied every other year—_

"Shut up, Doctor."

She put the letter away and watched the countryside pass by. It would be hours yet before she reached him. And then?

Her pulse picked up just a tick.

_Excited. That's a good word, Doctor. Maybe I'll even tell you so._

She wouldn't have to, of course; he would know. But still….

"You'd like hearing it, wouldn't you?"

_I know I do._

* * *

><p>Hannibal Lecter arrived at the station early, entering only after scrutinizing the flow of foot traffic, looking for anything – or anyone – out of place. He had made several previous visits to familiarize himself with the building, its architectural quirks and the most expedient means of egress. Trust was not necessary when one was properly prepared.<p>

The arrivals board indicated Clarice's train was approaching on schedule. He had perhaps 30 minutes before she would be here, standing before him. The image of their last meeting came unbidden to his mind. His hands once more felt her warmth. His lips tingled at the brush of her tongue. Her understanding eyes pierced him as he backed away from where she knelt on the bed.

He inhaled deeply, bringing the mingled odors of machines and the mass of humanity that passed daily through the station to his nose, banishing the memory of her presence. He could not expect to pick up where events had left off – certainly not in the middle of a train station, in any case.

It would be necessary to assess her attitude toward him before selecting an opening gambit. Most of a year had passed since he had seen her last; who knew what changes such a length of time spent under the FBI's watchful eye, without his influence, might have wrought?

He busied himself studying those around him while pretending to browse. It wouldn't do to allow himself to sink deeply into thoughts of Clarice, not here, where caution and attention were called for.

The train's arrival sent a small crowd scurrying forward – eager, he imagined, to greet friends and loved ones. He himself was not immune to the impulse, though he carefully held it in check. His position along the railing above the main floor allowed him the perfect vantage point.

There – behind a pair of youthful backpackers, ahead of the older gentleman even now sweeping a small child up in his arms. _Clarice._

His hand clenched involuntarily around the railing. His Starling had arrayed herself in brilliant blue plumage, a short-sleeved blouse atop the standard American khaki trouser. A smile touched the corners of his lips. He had anticipated well, it seemed; his own casual slacks and button-down shirt were a near match, merely a few shades darker.

Her head constantly in motion, she surveyed the crowd as he watched. Her movements were smooth, calm; she appeared no different from the others seeking to meet up with friends at the end of the long journey.

He watched as she rolled her neck; it had been, in total, more than 15 hours of traveling to bring her here even before adding in the hours she had lost crossing time zones. She would be tired, sore, in need of solitude to relax and recover her good humor, he expected.

He could not perceive any anxiety in her at this distance, but that, too, seemed likely. Surely she had doubts about this adventure. He hoped to be able to put her at ease quickly so they might enjoy this time together, but he would not deceive her in this. If she were to accept him, it would not be from behind rose-colored glasses.

The crowd had thinned; he had not noted anyone paying particular attention to her, apart from the occasional appreciative glance from unaccompanied – and a few accompanied – men. She herself had not passed any signals that he could see, had not shown undue interest in those who remained.

It was time.

* * *

><p>Clarice took her time exiting the train. A sense of… reluctance… had crept into her thoughts. Doubts she had thought quelled suddenly reappeared, and she sat in her seat, taking slow and steady breaths, as the passengers around her claimed their luggage and departed.<p>

What would he be like, freed of all external constraints? Would he still be the man she knew, the courteous, challenging man who stirred her blood with the barest hint of a smile, the flash in his eyes?

She pictured him as he had been after the hurricane had passed. Respectful. Protective. Restrained despite the urgency she could feel in his musculature. He had wanted her then; she was certain of it. But he was the master of his urges. Whatever he had planned for their time together now, she could be confident that he had considered every implication, every angle, with calm, focused reason.

_He won't hurt me. He would rather deny himself than hurt me._

That thought propelled her out of her seat, prompted her to gather her things, and carried her out to the platform, following the crowd moving into the main hall of the station. She kept her ears open on the off chance that a courtesy announcement would demand her attention, but she suspected he was here waiting. The game was more fun with both players on the board.

She stopped slightly to the side of the crush and craned her head, looking around as any new arrival might. Most of them, she expected, were not marking the exits, the sight lines, the possible threats in the crowd.

A pause, as she felt eyes moving over her. Discomfort suggested someone other than the doctor; yes, a man a dozen feet away, smiling as he caught her eye. She dismissed him with a curt shake of her head and a warning frown.

She resumed her scan of the surroundings. Something had changed; there, at the railing on the level above – an empty place where before had stood a man. She had no rational reason to believe it had been him. And yet… her heartbeat picked up. She turned toward the stairs. Nothing.

A slow swivel revealed the thinning crowd, the stragglers heading past her to their homes or other destinations. And then, finally, she felt it. Not a tingling in her spine, not a prickle between her shoulder blades – no, this was the antithesis of such things. It was a calmness, a dead spot in her constant awareness of her surroundings, as though a shroud had fallen. It felt… comforting.

She turned to her left. A man was approaching, his hat pulled low over his face. His khaki slacks and navy blue shirt seemed a darker mirror of her own attire. A smile spread across her face. He appeared subtly different – minor alternations to his face and hair, a healthy cast to his skin replacing the slight gauntness and wan coloration he had sported beneath the dingy lighting of the Baltimore asylum.

"Clarice." His greeting was clipped, precise. "You look lovely. Enjoying your holiday thus far, my dear?"

"You look well, Doctor. Freedom suits you."

_Shit, did I just say that?_

His eyes laughed at her.

"I'm pleased that you approve, Clarice. I heartily agree."

Her heart pounded as she stared at him. The butterflies in her stomach, previously at rest, had apparently decided to migrate without warning her. His warm smile was doing unspeakable things to her insides. She imagined, suddenly, that they were lovers reuniting after a long absence, that she might step forward and twine her arms around his neck and kiss him with abandon.

His smile grew.

"You look a bit flushed, Clarice. Perhaps it's warm in here, hmm?"

She nodded, unwilling to chance speaking again until she had gotten herself under control.

"If I may?" His fingers slid along hers as he grasped the handle of her suitcase. She inhaled sharply. "It's a short ride to our destination, Clarice, and then you may rest and refresh yourself."

He offered her his other arm. She slipped her hand around the inside of his elbow, brushing over the rolled-up cuff of his sleeve until her fingers rested on the bare skin of his forearm.

_Get control of myself? Yeah, right. At this rate, I won't be talking again all week._

But she was pleased to notice a faint tremble in him, as well, as her fingertips slid along the soft skin on the underside of his arm. And he accommodated his stride to hers as they left the station, so she need not relinquish her grip.

_I guess I'm not the only one who's been looking forward to this._


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: **My apologies for disrupting the reading experience; this note is really just for the first anonymous reviewer of Chapter 1, as I'm unable to respond to him or her privately, and I couldn't in good conscience leave the response unsaid. Therefore: Thank you for your honesty. It's a fair criticism. I readily admit, action and plot are not particularly in my skill set; I just babble at length – drone, as you say – about character psychology mostly. I'm afraid I cannot promise a more eventful story this time around, though perhaps you'll tell me if you find it so. In any case, I'm pleased that you found the previous story worth reading despite its flaws. Thanks for speaking up! – BG

* * *

><p>His Starling remained silent in the car. The ride was short; he judged it more important to bring her home quickly and allow her to settle in than to play tour guide and show her the sights. Doubtless she had had enough of traveling in the last day.<p>

Her comportment suggested no discomfort in his presence; the silence was neither strained nor awkward. It seemed… natural, that she should be here by his side. Her left hand lay on her thigh mere inches from where his right hand manipulated the gearshift. She was thinking of touching him, he suspected, given the repetitive movement of her fingers in his peripheral vision.

Taken together with the arousal he had sensed from her at the station, such action was gratifying indeed. _Has my absence made your heart grow fonder, my dear?_

He pulled the car smoothly into the space behind the rented townhouse. It had come fully furnished, a necessity given the brevity of their stay, though he had engaged it for two months to allow leeway.

She reached for the door latch as he turned off the engine, and he lightly brushed the back of her hand.

"A moment, if you please, Clarice."

Her eyebrow lifted in inquiry, but she settled back into the seat.

He stepped out and gathered her bags from the trunk before coming around to open her door and offer her his hand. The not-quite-hidden look of amusement on her face suggested she considered his gesture… endearing, perhaps. Given the affection in her gaze, he supposed he might have predicted her next action, though he did not.

Her fingers grasped his firmly as she swiveled her legs out and stood. A scant inch lay between them. He would not cross the distance without her invitation, but it seemed she held no reciprocal principle – for which, much thanks.

She leaned in and lightly brushed his cheek with her lips.

"Thank you, Doctor." Her breath ghosted over his ear.

He was left wondering whether she intended thanks for his courteous gesture or something more. From her tone, he rather thought the latter.

"Of course, Clarice. It's a pleasure having you here." He inclined his head toward the house. "Come, I'll show you where we'll be staying."

She made no objection, neither verbal nor physical, when his hand brushed the cotton covering her back and gently guided her forward.

* * *

><p>He had brought her to a three-story townhome in a neighborhood of the same, beyond a river and hotels and shops. She could find her way back relatively easily, she thought, having paid careful attention to the route as a way of distracting herself from thoughts of him.<p>

A small yard lay beside the parking space off the narrow alley; a concrete walkway led to a seating area outside the back door. She looked up and noted the slope of the roof likely meant interesting angles in the third-floor rooms, but there was no doubt they were finished, as a balcony had been cut into the slope along the back of the house.

The doctor unlocked the back door and gestured her in ahead of him.

"Unless you'd rather I enter first, Clarice?"

"Not at all, Doctor." She stepped forward without a qualm, though she entered unfamiliar surroundings with him at her back. _You trust him. You trust him to have your back. _The thought itched, and she tipped her head to shake it out.

She stood in a breakfast nook, the sort with a wooden booth curving around a corner and a bench opposite. His hand reached behind her; the lights came up with a click to illuminate the rest of the kitchen.

"Are you hungry, Clarice? I thought perhaps a late lunch would suit, unless you would prefer to nap."

Her bags made a soft clatter followed by a thud and a snick; presumably, he had set them down beside the door and closed it behind them. She shook her head, a bit tired, true, but wanting to shake off the effects of jet lag quickly.

"No nap, Doctor. It'll only make it more difficult to adjust to the time difference." She stepped further into the kitchen, turning to face him as she rested an arm on the chef's island. "I'm alright; I slept on the plane anyhow."

"Did you now?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I know, I know, I've just admitted to a level of comfort with the whole idea of coming here that you weren't certain I'd achieve, right, Doctor?"

She inwardly exulted at the look that flashed across his face – surprise and something else… pleasure? Pride?

"Brava, Clarice. You've grown since I saw you last."

"I hope you're not suggesting you see me as a child, Doctor."

"Not in the least, my dear. Would you have me demonstrate?"

He winked, the bastard, as she struggled to keep her expression under control. Her eyes surveyed the kitchen, the leaded glass fronts on the cabinetry, the knives resting serenely on the magnetized strip near the stovetop. _Cool, sharp… yes, he's like a blade. But you can be, too._

"Maybe later, Doctor." She'd hit the offhand, nonchalant tone she was aiming for; she knew it by the sparks dancing in his eyes. "You mentioned lunch?"

* * *

><p>She was playing with him. How delightful, he thought, to have a playmate who so embraced the game. She had been quiet on the ride over; one could take the woman out of the FBI, but….<p>

"Tell me, Clarice, have you memorized the route to the train station?" He slipped past her on his way to the refrigerator, not quite touching, no, just reminding her of his physical presence unconstrained by boundaries other than his own understanding of courtesy.

"I could find my way back, sure." He felt her eyes watching him as he pulled out the torte he had prepared this morning and set the oven to preheating. "Tired of my company already, Doctor?"

"Not in the slightest, my dear. But it's important that you understand your options, hmm?"

He removed the pitcher of apple juice from the refrigerator and collected glasses from the cupboard. The flavor would be a suitable pairing with the bacon and cheese in the torte, and juice would not exacerbate her fatigue as wine might.

"As opposed to thinking I'm entirely at your mercy?" Her tone reflected amusement; if she were suspicious about his motives for bringing her here, she had apparently pushed such thoughts aside. "Now what would make me think that, Doctor?"

"What, indeed."

The torte would require some time to warm; he poured the juice and pushed a glass across the island to her with his fingertips. Her acceptance pleased him. Thus far, she had not seemed fazed by their interaction. She was, perhaps, more aware of her own reaction to him – an elevated response, but essentially the same arousal he had sensed from her at scattered moments as she sat outside his cell.

The oven pinged, alerting him to its readiness, and he put the torte in to warm. When he turned back, her eyes were distant, her soft smile fond, and he found himself reluctant to disturb her ruminations, keen though he was to enjoy the sound of her voice and the warmth of her company.

She blinked and looked up, perhaps sensing his gaze. Her hand closed around the juice glass; she raised it in a toast, and he followed suit.

"To domesticity, Doctor."

He studied her aspect. Fatigued, yes, but also… relaxed. Calm. Unburdened. _Lovely._

"To domesticity, Clarice."

She clinked the glasses with a hint of childish glee, and they sipped their apple juice in silence. He refilled her glass before selecting plates from the dish cabinet and forks from the china drawer.

"We may, of course, stay in tonight if you wish, Clarice. You've had a long journey, and time to acclimate yourself would not be unwarranted."

He set the table with swift precision – plates, forks, and napkins only – and removed a light salad and freshly made dressing from the refrigerator.

"But you had something else in mind." It wasn't quite a question, though she surely invited a reply with her tone.

"The symphony orchestra is performing tonight at the Staatstheater. I acquired tickets in the event that you wished to attend."

He was careful not to hint at his own desires; this vacation, as she termed it, was an opportunity to present himself to her as a suitable partner, to accompany her about town and allow her the chance to form her own impressions. He had planned a variety of activities toward that end, of course; it was his responsibility as the host to provide appropriate entertainment. But plans might change on a whim – her whim, to be precise. He would accommodate her wishes as much as was possible without compromising their safety.

"That does sound nice, Doctor."

Reservation colored her voice; her eyes darted toward her things, sitting beside the door for now. Her concern was obvious and easily remedied.

"I hope you won't be offended, Clarice, but I have left appropriate clothing for you on the bed."

She smiled, shaking her head, and met his eyes.

"Still dressing me in things you like to look at, Doctor?"

"Mmm. Would you prefer that I tell you I would equally enjoy looking at you without them, Clarice?"

She responded with a delightful blush, her capillaries suffusing her face and neck with soft pink warmth. She rallied quickly, however.

"Is that your backup plan, Doctor, if the symphony's out?"

He momentarily froze, unable to look away from her bright eyes and playful smile.

"You're playing quite the dangerous game, Clarice."

She nodded, slowly.

"I know. I just…." She shook her head. He thought he might be amused by her confusion, were he not so enticed by her loveliness.

"Let's just go to the concert, Doctor. That would be…."

"Safer," he finished.

"Safer," she agreed.

He removed the torte from the oven and set to serving them both. No matter how enjoyable, this had the potential to be a very difficult week.


	3. Chapter 3

Clarice lingered in the bath, letting the heat of the water ease the tightness in her muscles. The doctor had assured her that there was plenty of time before the concert, and she was prepared to take advantage of every last minute. His footsteps had gone past in the hall some time ago, presumably heading up to the third floor, to the master suite.

Her own accommodations were here on the second floor, a spacious room with western exposure. The bath was adjoining; a second door opened into the hall. She hadn't yet been invited to view the remaining room on the floor, nor had she been invited up to the third floor. Despite her curiosity, she would not pry, would not invade his sanctuary.

A soft rap on the door to the hall made her jump; water sloshed against the sides of the old clawfoot tub. It was deep, thankfully, and she hadn't filled it so high as to worry about spilling water on the floor.

"Yes?" She could hear the nerves in her voice and knew he must, too.

"Thirty minutes, Clarice, if you still wish to attend the concert."

"Now I've seen the dress, Doctor, you couldn't keep me away."

He hummed softly; she imagined he was smiling on the far side of the door.

"I'll be waiting downstairs, then, my dear. Whenever you're ready."

Now that she was listening for it, she heard the tap of his shoes on the wood floor as he walked away. With a soft sigh, she pulled the old-fashioned plug from the drain and draped the chain over the spigots. The towel was thick, soft, and absorbent; she wondered if he had chosen it specifically for her, as he certainly must have done for the cosmetics and soaps on the vanity.

_If it weren't for keeping up appearances with Dee, I wouldn't have needed to bring a bag at all._

The lotion smelled of honey and almonds. She used the makeup sparingly and pulled her hair back. Some of the shorter strands fell loose, but she wasn't about to spend time fussing with it.

The dress he'd left lay on the bed, shoes beside it, and her bags sat near the chest of drawers. Clarice considered the contents of the suitcase; nice things, yes, but nothing that matched the finery he had laid out. Biting her lip, she crossed the room and opened the top drawer of the dresser.

An ice-blue card lay on a sea of underclothing.

**Please make use of whatever you like, Clarice. You're under no obligation, of course. But I suspect you'll find it amusing to keep me guessing, hmm? **

**H.**

She lifted out a set of stockings, with garters and matching panties.

_I should not even be considering this._

The mental argument was still going on by the time she had fastened the final clip and stepped into the dress. In the entire ensemble, only one piece had come from her luggage – and that piece, too, had come from him originally. With a bit of twisting, she was able to zip the dress without assistance. That was… _safer_.

She took a deep breath, opened the door, and headed down the stairs, unsure whether she was relieved or disappointed not to have an excuse to feel his hands on her naked back.

* * *

><p>Hannibal Lecter had found courtesy an appropriate response in any number of situations, but never before had he found it such a necessary one.<p>

He brandished it as a shield to distance himself from the emotional maelstrom she generated. His desire was a tangible thing, not merely an easily suppressed physical response but a need for her company, her laughter, the scent and softness of her skin, the keen mind behind beautiful eyes. Irrationality roared from deep within him, and it knew only one word.

_Mine._

It had roared when he had heard her footstep on the stair and watched her descend to him, wearing the clothes he had chosen for her, and it roared again now as he exchanged banal pleasantries with other concert-goers in the lobby.

The pale green linen blend, appropriate for the warmth of a summer evening, accented the youthful glow of her skin; he had matched the shade in the pinstripes of the shirt beneath his white linen suit and in the pocket square. Though he had not introduced her as his paramour, thinking it unseemly, such was obvious to those who cared to look – which did not, it seemed, include the young pup accompanying the couple they spoke to now. Indeed, if the boy cared to look at anything, it was the shift of Clarice's hips and the rise and fall beneath the scoop neck of her dress as she breathed.

The doctor restrained the urge to more obviously demonstrate his elevated status in her life with primitive, territorial gestures. Such actions were unnecessary; Clarice was not about to be seduced away by a German college student with mussed hair who wore sandals – sandals, of all things – to the symphony. Indeed, he reflected, as she tucked her arm more firmly around his while responding to the boy's inquiries about America, she was quite capable of territorial demonstrations of her own.

That was, he supposed, why she had worn the necklace. It was gratifying to see the pearls had not disappeared into a box in the depths of the FBI upon his escape. She likely could not wear them at home, but here, far from any who knew that they had once been a gift from an incarcerated serial killer to a law enforcement officer, she wore them openly around her neck.

An encouraging sign, to be sure; a necklace was not a ring, no, and they were hardly betrothed – but that she wore it at all, that she desired to do so without the excuse of satiating his appetite for beauty denied him by prison walls… well. Clarice was a woman who worked hard and paid her own way. She would not value the necklace merely for its monetary worth, which meant she must attach some emotional weight to it as well. And thus, by extension, she must attach some emotional weight to its giver.

_You tell me many things without speaking a word, Clarice. I wonder, do you feel the same of me? _

The boy launched another question, speaking over his father's discussion of the concert selections, and the doctor idly considered whether the couple might not be better off childless.

"That's really an excellent question, Karl, and I'm so sorry, but there just isn't enough time to answer it properly. It's my first visit to this theater, and Thomas promised to show me some of the architectural highlights before the concert begins." Either Clarice was truly sorry – which the doctor doubted – or she had managed a quite credible facsimile of it in her smile. "Herr Hoffmann, Frau Hoffmann, I do hope you'll excuse us."

"Of course, of course. We should be finding our own seats soon as well. It was lovely to meet you." Hoffmann the elder nodded genially to Hannibal, who smiled pleasantly in return.

"Yes, perhaps we'll see you later in the week; we can finish our chat about the merits of Shostakovich."

"I could go with you – I know plenty about the theater." It was, the doctor reflected, quite pitiful to see what passed for cunning in young Karl's mind. "Father, you and Mother could stay and talk to Herr Clark while I show Caroline the sights."

The doctor smoothly inserted his own response before the boy could embarrass himself further.

"I'm afraid not, young Karl. It would be remiss of me as a gentleman to renege on my promise to Frau Bell, no matter how stimulating the conversation."

Nonexistent though the promise was, the doctor now fully intended to give Clarice a tour of the hall. Fortunately, he had taken the public tour and attended a concert last week in preparation for her visit, assessing the suitability of the venue and its performers. Clarice's lovely bit of improvisation merely provided an excuse to share such knowledge with her.

The doctor had emphasized Clarice's assumed surname for the evening, as well, though it was likely too late to teach Hoffmann the younger the finer points of polite address for women with whom he had barely a passing acquaintance. From the look Herr Hoffmann shot his son, however, he expected at least the older generation had recognized the correction.

The harsh undertones of rapidly whispered German were pleasant music to his ears as he led Clarice away.


	4. Chapter 4

Tension kept Clarice's back rigid through the first selection and into the second piece of the night. The armrest lay bare between them. He had not claimed it, and she lacked the courage.

No, that wasn't true at all. She could claim it, make a deliberate incursion upon his space, and see how he responded.

_You kissed his cheek at the house, and he didn't take that badly, now did he?_

_That was… I don't know what that was._

_But it turned out fine._

_That was just us, with no one… we're surrounded by people here. And he's listening to the music. I don't want to disturb his peace. _

_You think you aren't already? Thinking so much is making you agitated. If you start squirming in your seat like a child, won't that distract him more?_

_Shit. … So I should…._

_Follow your instincts. You're on vacation. You're with a man you—_

_Don't say it._

__—_don't entirely dislike. Figure out what you want, and do that._

_Right. Do that._

Her body swayed slightly to the right; her arm crept over the barrier between them. She hoped her gulp wasn't audible to him as she let her hand drop over the side, her fingers brushing his knuckles where his hand lay atop his thigh. He made no movement as her hand covered his, her fingers sliding into place over his own.

But as she moved to draw back, nervous, uncertain, his hand flipped under hers and grasped it with delicate strength. His fingers, now upturned, curled through her own, pads resting on her knuckles, thumb lightly stroking her index finger. She squeezed firmly in return, relaxing back into her seat.

He didn't relinquish his grip until it was time to depart, and then only to move his hand to her back, where she felt the heat of it against her spine as he guided her out of the hall.

_See? That didn't turn out so badly, either. Take a few risks. Go ahead and jump. He'll catch you._

_Right. He'll catch me._

* * *

><p>Every day could not go as smoothly as the first, the doctor acknowledged, but he could not have hoped for a better opening move.<p>

Clarice had slipped off her shoes and now sat comfortably ensconced on the sofa in the front room, listening to Chopin on the stereo system. He had seemingly piqued her interest with his own responses to her – playful, but always respectful as well – and the concert had proved a pleasant diversion.

She had overcome her nerves to reach out for him; he allowed a brief taste of the sensation to flood his senses now. Her tentative gesture was quite encouraging. If she had reservations about a relationship with him, it seemed her courage could defeat them with only minimal assistance from him.

It had been a true delight to discover that he could, indeed, caress her skin and not cause her to pull away. The contact was novel yet, a culmination of every frustrated attempt that could only be catalogued and endured as he had watched her from behind glass.

He cut a sliver of the dark chocolate cheesecake he had prepared that morning and poured two half-glasses of a rich Merlot. The small amount of wine and chocolate would ensure she went to bed with an endorphin boost, a mood elevator, without containing enough caffeine to compromise her sleep. He carried both out to the front room and set them on the coffee table.

Her eyes lit up upon their first glimpse of the cheesecake.

"Tell me you didn't make that yourself."

"Would you decline to eat it if I had, Clarice?" He took a seat on the sofa near her, but not too near. He would let her come to him, to initiate contact as she had at the concert. He need only make himself available for such ideas to arise in her mind.

She shook her head.

"I don't think you're trying to serve me human organs, Doctor. Frankly, I don't think you've killed anyone recently, certainly not in this neighborhood." Clarice lifted the plate and cut a bite of the cake with the fork. "You wouldn't have wanted to risk the chance of any undue attention."

Her eyes watched him as she laid the cake on her tongue and pulled the fork free, at least until they closed and a smile spread across her face. The soft sound she made was quite stimulating, he thought, neither a moan nor a whimper but perhaps the opening note of both. He sipped his wine, pleased, and watched the muscles in her throat work as she swallowed.

"Aren't we doing this backwards, Doctor?" Her eyes remained closed for a moment more before she opened them and cut a second bite of cake. "Isn't the woman supposed to impress the man with her culinary skills?"

"Mmm. You do carry the gun and hustle off to work every day, my dear, while I keep house and experiment with recipes to enchant your palate. Is a hausfrau too feminine a partner for you?"

She ate another bite of cake and sipped her wine before responding.

"I'm not carrying a gun now. Too much hassle to bring one overseas." Her eyes accused him of deliberately engineering their meeting under such circumstances.

He winked at her. She wasn't wrong, not in the slightest. Assuring she lacked access to a firearm was simple self-preservation.

She smiled, shaking her head. "And 'feminine' is not a word I'd use to describe you, Doctor. Not even if you put on a dress and had dinner on the table every night when I got home."

"Well then, perhaps notions of 'forwards' and 'backwards' simply don't apply to us, hmm?"

She fell silent as she finished her cake and her wine, and he refused to interrupt her contemplation. Her posture remained relaxed; so long as that was the case, he need not fear her thoughts. Indeed, some minutes later – perhaps ten, perhaps fifteen – she nodded lightly to herself. He concealed his smile.

They listened to the music a while longer. She was beginning to nod off, he noted without surprise; aside from what sleep she had gotten as she traveled, she had no doubt been awake for more than forty hours now. It was an easy matter to coax her to her feet and send her upstairs.

He hummed as he cleaned up the kitchen, listening to the sound of her footsteps overhead as she readied herself for bed. He had some few tasks yet to finish before he sought his own.


	5. Chapter 5

The bedroom lay in shadow when Clarice woke, though the birdsong outside proclaimed it morning. Benefits of a bedroom on the western side of the house, she supposed, idly wondering if the doctor's room was directly above her own. That would make it the room with the balcony, she thought. Did he watch the stars from that perch, late at night while the city slept?

The clock at the bedside informed her it was just past eight o'clock; the distant ringing of church bells seemed the likely culprit for ending her slumber. Clarice yawned, stretched, and swung her legs out of bed. Her muscles still felt a bit tight from the hours of traveling.

_Maybe I'll get the chance to stretch them today. _

She tried to imagine what the doctor had in mind – sightseeing? A winery tour? He had to have planned something, she knew; it would have been against his nature to invite her here and leave her to entertain herself.

_Besides, we're here to spend time together, aren't we? Isn't that why you came? Do you know why you came?_

"Ugh. No thinking before coffee, brain. We've been over this before."

Clarice stumbled into the bathroom and shucked her pajamas – her own, straight from her suitcase, thank-you-very-much. The shower in the back corner was separate from the tub, a modern walk-in. She took her time, letting the water wake her up, using the toiletries the doctor had provided.

Once dry, she dressed in casual clothes and stepped out into the hall. She cocked her head, listening. Nothing. The house felt empty.

_That doesn't mean he's gone. He's a quiet guy. Or he could still be sleeping._

She shook her head, rejecting that thought even before it had finished forming. If nothing else, she knew, he would be the perfect host – and that hardly meant sleeping in when he had a guest.

_Unless he's just gone. Unless he's abandoned me here._

Her steps took her down the stairs faster than they usually would, though she knew the thought was a ridiculous one. At first glance, the rooms were still and empty. No doctor stood in the kitchen to greet her. But there, on the island – a sheet of paper propped against a tray of something that smelled wonderful. A key lay on the counter beside it.

She snatched up the paper and unfolded it.

**Clarice,**

**Should you prefer not to indulge in the kuchen, I have also left cut fruit in the refrigerator. And, of course, there is plenty of the cheesecake you so enjoyed last night. Please sample whatever you like. **

**As I have a few tasks to attend to this morning, I thought you might wish to go for a run and stretch your legs. The promenade along the river is merely a few blocks to the west; the view is lovely. If you've brought nothing suitable to wear, there are, as you have undoubtedly discovered by now, items available for your use in the bedroom.**

**Please do not feel as though you must remain in the house, Clarice. You are a guest, not a prisoner. **

**I expect to return before lunchtime. **

**Until then,**

**Hannibal**

She stared at the letter for several moments, digesting the implications. It was a test, clearly.

_He's giving me space… showing he can anticipate my needs with the remark about running… proving he trusts me? It's not safe for him to trust me. He must have some way of watching me, making sure I don't run off to the nearest police station to turn him in as a fugitive… or stay in the house and search his rooms. _

It was a tempting thought, she admitted, though not because she expected he had been committing crimes. No, she didn't think she'd find skeletons in his closet. And he wasn't likely to have sentimental objects close at hand, either. But he might be writing, sketching, pouring out pieces of himself on paper in ways he hadn't yet revealed himself to her.

_Snooping would be cheating. Yeah, you wish you could read him as effortlessly as he does you, but that's not the way to do it. _

She made herself a plate of coffee cake and fruit, poured herself a glass of orange juice that tasted fresh-squeezed, debated and finally gave in to the craving for a thin slice more of the chocolate cheesecake, and eventually left her empty dishes in the sink while she went upstairs to grab a running outfit from the magical dresser that seemed to be full of clothes in her size.

By half past nine, she was locking the door behind her, tucking the key into the slim pocket at her waistband, and hitting the pavement.

* * *

><p>There were risks, certainly, in allowing Clarice to roam the house and the city unattended. Dr. Lecter had, of necessity, locked away the few personal effects gracing his rooms – sketches of her, in the main, that he would rather she not see. They would all too clearly communicate the depth of his preoccupation with her.<p>

But on the whole, he expected her moral duty would win out over her professional one, having been formed much earlier in her life and comprising a significant proportion of her character. This was, after all, a personal visit, and she a guest in his home for the duration. Though unschooled in the formal courtesies, Clarice Starling was a quite courteous woman.

She was unlikely to broach the privacy of his room in his absence. And, having no evidence of recent crimes, she would also be unlikely to report his presence to the nearest authorities for extradition. She had seen him in his confinement, a cage beyond the physical, and he did not think he was deluding himself to believe that she would not see him returned to it. Which wasn't, he admitted, to say that she didn't struggle daily with the conflict.

The contradiction simply made her a more excellent puzzle well worth exploring.

So it was that he took his time selecting items for their picnic lunch, a variety of small morsels to expand her palate. No doubt she and her roommate still subsisted on fast food fare carried home in greasy sacks. Perhaps, if she showed interest, he might begin her tutelage in the culinary arts this week. If nothing else, he would feed her well.

With his purchases complete, he asked for a small favor at his final stop – could the shop hold his goods in its refrigerator while he enjoyed a bit of breakfast in the outdoor seating area? His request was accommodated with grace and speed.

The morning was pleasantly warm, and the view agreeable, even if the lead actress were to choose not to make an appearance. The doctor settled at a table with his coffee and pastry, his back to the shop window, and kept watch as his thoughts wandered.

The shop, a first-floor business with living quarters overhead, lay on the most direct path between the river and the house. Pedestrian traffic was light – the occasional well-dressed person likely heading to ten o'clock services or gaggle of tourists wandering from their nearby hotels mingled with the few outliers.

The doctor sipped his coffee and sampled his pastry – appropriately buttery and flaky, with a hint of orange – and waited. He had finished the pastry, but not the coffee, when she made her appearance.

She'd chosen to wear the midnight blue running shorts he had provided, though the sleeveless gray top must have come from her own things. Her arms demonstrated lovely muscle tone as they swung with her motion. She ran steadily, neither fast nor slow; her head turned as she scanned her surroundings – whether as a tourist or as an investigator, he could not say.

Her stride was indeed long and graceful, as he had surmised it would be. With the morning sun at her back, her shadow stretched out before her as though she ran to catch it. _Or perhaps step into it and disappear, hmm?_

He was careful not to study her openly; even from across the street, she might feel his eyes upon her. But she passed without a second glance, stride never faltering, steps carrying her onward to the river's grassy bank.

The doctor leisurely drank his coffee, his mind's eye replaying the stretching and bunching of Clarice's muscles as she ran. Upon finishing the beverage, he collected the picnic basket and walked back to the house – at a more sedate pace, naturally, than the one Clarice was no doubt employing.

* * *

><p>Clarice turned the key in the lock at the back door. The kitchen was no longer empty. Dr. Lecter looked up as she entered; he held out a glass.<p>

"Water. You really should stay hydrated, Clarice. Did you have a pleasant run?"

She drank as she considered the question. She'd learned her way around this side of the river. She'd kept to a moderate pace and was coated in a light sweat to show for it. The doctor did not in any way seem disturbed by her appearance or smell – or by the fact that she had been out of his presence for most of the morning.

"It was interesting. Worked out the kinks." She found herself studying his shirt, her investigative mind kicking into overdrive. "You were watching me. At a café."

"For a few moments, as you passed by, yes. You have a lovely stride, Clarice. Fine form."

"You weren't worried?"

"Was there something I ought to have worried about, Clarice?"

"What if I had gone to the police? What if they were waiting just outside the door now?"

He didn't even glance at the window to check. _So sure of me, Doctor?_

"Then our quiet Sunday would have been disrupted, and lunch would have gone uneaten, Clarice."

"It doesn't… _bother_ you?"

"You'll have to define your query more sharply than that, Clarice."

She groaned, frustrated.

"You're so sure of me that it doesn't even occur to you that I might take advantage of the opportunity to–"

To what? Betray him? That would mean she was on his side, wouldn't it? She could hardly betray him if she were truly his enemy; that would be duty, not betrayal.

"—to turn you in? To snoop around the house?"

"And yet you did neither of those things, Clarice." He pinned her with his gaze. "I am not sure of you, no; I could hardly be so when you are unsure of yourself. But these principles that you hold so dear – duty, honor, justice – are rather at odds with a woman who would accept my invitation as a houseguest and then use that protected status to launch an attack upon me, hmm?"

She couldn't argue with him there.

"So you'll use my virtues against me, Doctor?" A thought intruded, falling from her lips before she'd even contemplated withholding it. "Or do you consider them vices?"

"I needn't use them at all, Clarice, when you wield them so effectively for me. But it would be shortsighted of me not to take them into account in anticipating your behavior and your needs while you are my guest, would it not?"

He remained unflappable under her scrutiny; she thought she really ought to get him to teach her how he could so intimidate people with his gaze alone, as hers didn't seem to be doing the trick. _That could be really useful in an interrogation._

"You didn't answer the question, Doctor," she pointed out in her most helpful tone, the one that pleasantly invited more senior agents to bend over so she could put a boot up their asses. "Virtues or vices?"

His eyes laughed at her, but he didn't sidestep the question.

"Virtues, all, Clarice, though perhaps our current definitions are subtly different. Did you wish to engage in a protracted discussion of justice now, or would you prefer to shower before our afternoon outing?"

She accepted the deflection without a fuss, following his conversational lead. They could pick up their discussion of justice at any time, she supposed, and she _was_ technically on vacation.

"We're going on an outing?"

"Unless you object, my dear. I've packed us a picnic lunch; I thought we might tour the botanical gardens."

Strolling through gardens? A picnic lunch? How… romantic, her mind supplied. The butterflies in her stomach danced before she calmed them once more.

"That sounds nice, Doctor." More than nice, she admitted. "I'll just go get ready."

She turned from the island, heading into the living room, but stopped at the columned half-wall separating the two.

"Am I going to find an outfit on the bed again, Doctor?"

"Not unless you wish me to fetch you one now, Clarice." A pause, in which she had started forward once more, and then his voice caught up to her on the stairs. "There are, of course, suitable sundresses hanging in the wardrobe if you've a mind to wear one."

She just knew he was laughing on the inside.


	6. Chapter 6

The university campus lay beyond the city proper to the northeast; the drive was a short one. Clarice waited, without prompting, for him to open her door and offer her his arm, he noted. He carried the picnic basket over his other arm.

She'd chosen to wear one of the sundresses as he'd suggested; the hem swirled about her knees as she walked beside him.

"Shall we indulge in lunch first and explore the gardens afterward, Clarice?"

"That suits me fine, Doctor."

He found a shady spot beneath a tree, a good distance from the students spending their afternoon frolicking on the lawn, and spread out a blanket. Clarice settled herself in the corner and slipped off her sandals as he laid out the selections he'd made on his morning errands. She had truly lovely feet, he noted; he might contrive a reason to offer her a massage.

"Perhaps you'd care to share with me why you chose to initiate this meeting now, Clarice." He handed her a plate with a sampling of everything. "Feeling sentimental?"

It was, after all, just over two years ago that she had made her first… personal… visit to his cell. Had she thought June appropriate for new beginnings?

She accepted the plate, shaking her head as she smiled.

"Not in the way you mean, Doctor. A significant coincidence, maybe."

Ah. Of course – the occasion of her first visit.

"It has also been two years since your graduation from the esteemed FBI Academy."

"Bingo."

"And the significance of that anniversary, Clarice?"

"Unofficially, training is over. People are getting permanent section assignments." She toyed with the food on her plate but did not lift a morsel to her lips. "Delia got the white collar slot she wanted."

"And you did not."

"Right again."

"Did Uncle Jack offer an excuse for this oversight?"

"Of course. But it was obvious that that's what it was."

Anger, contempt even, flashed across her face. That Jackie-boy had lied to her, or that she had finally seen the lie? The first was merely betrayal – the anger would fade over time, and she might come to trust her perceived mentor once more; the second was true progress, an expansion of her thinking, the realization that Jack Crawford would never give her what she wanted.

"I may have burned that bridge."

He was careful to keep the glee off his face. She sighed, staring off into the distance.

"Do you mind if we change the subject, Doctor? I'm really not in the mood to think about why Mr. Crawford's rejection sent me running out here to see you."

Mmm. She was aware of the impulse; that was enough for now.

"Of course, Clarice. You're on holiday; you needn't consider any thoughts you deem too strenuous."

She scoffed, laying her plate aside and reclining on the blanket, staring up at the clouds.

"Did you ever look for shapes in the clouds when you were a kid, Doctor?"

"I was never a kid, Clarice; my parents had a son, not a goat."

She reached out and poked his ribs with a stiff finger. He could have stopped her, of course, but it was more amusing – and useful to his cause – to give her playful side free rein, to encourage such uninhibited behavior.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. I-Was-Never-A-Kid. Was cloud-gazing beneath the elevated dignity of your child-self?"

"I cannot say that I recall doing so for pleasure, Clarice."

"You missed out, then."

"Tell me." A request, not a command; though he knew the sorrows of her childhood, he knew little of her quiet joys, of the contradictorily brash and introspective child she must have been.

She turned her head sideways and looked up at him, squinting a bit at the sun filtering through the sheltering leaves.

"If you'd like, I guess."

"I would, Clarice, if you would care to share."

She shrugged and settled herself more comfortably on the blanket, tucking her hands behind her head and looking up at the sky.

"Well, first, you gotta figure it's a summer day, hot an' sticky, with just a warm breeze ruffling the tops of the grasses. It's cooler in the morning, so you get alla your running done then, chasing down whatever catches your eye, wading through the crick on your way home for lunch.

"You shovel in the food fast, on account it's hotter in the kitchen than it is in the fields and forest, even with the fan turning slow overhead. And when you head back out, your belly's full an' the sun's warm, and you're lazy with it. Naptime, but you're too old and too young for a nap, 'cause they're for babies an' grandpas.

"So you make a little nest in the grass, pull it down an' flatten it out a bit, and you wriggle 'round till you're all comfy and the stones don't poke and the grass don't prickle. An' you look up.

"And it's like… a message from the universe, just for you, 'cause everybody sees it different. Maybe you see a horse; maybe another says, no, that ain't no horse, it's a work table with a vise clamped to the end.

"You jus' watch, an' drift, an' dream."

What was it, he wondered, that made her drawl – always more prominent when she spoke of her past – charm his senses, soothe and quiet the vile memories lurking in the depths? Peacefulness had settled over them both.

Clarice reached across the space between to tug on his sleeve.

"Lie down, Doctor," she murmured. "You can't see what dreams the universe has in store for you if you're looking at me instead of the clouds."

He conceded gracefully, mimicking her pose and casting his eyes to the clouds, but he thought her argument greatly flawed. What better dream could the universe see fit to give him than the one that lay beside him now?

* * *

><p>The botanical gardens were beautiful, blooming and full of life, and the doctor proved a knowledgeable guide – but Clarice found she cared less about where she was than whom she was with.<p>

Having gained her courage at the symphony, she discovered it was easier now to slip her hand into his as they strolled along the paths. He didn't fuss about it; he made no comment at all, in truth, but his thumb stroked lightly over her fingers. His casual acceptance gave her confidence that this – whatever _this_ was – could work for them.

They stayed until the gardens closed in the early evening, and the doctor took them on a leisurely drive through the countryside before heading back into the city for dinner at home.

Once inside, he began pulling dishes from the refrigerator and laying them on the chef's island. Clarice leaned against the counter, watching his movements.

"You'll have some time before dinner, Clarice, if you wish to amuse yourself with the stereo or the books in the sitting room."

"I can't amuse myself with you?"

He paused to look at her, and she wondered if she would ever manage to engage a filter between her thoughts and her speech where he was concerned. She had no trouble holding perfectly inoffensive, unembarrassing, trivial conversations with other people; it was only in his presence that she always seemed to say more than she wanted to give away.

He arched an eyebrow, and she willed herself not to blush.

"I'm at your disposal, of course, Clarice, for whatever amusements you have in mind."

She hurriedly scanned the countertop.

"I could help. With dinner. I mean, I'm no expert, but…."

"But you're a quick study, yes." He pushed a cutting board and a collection of vegetables across the counter toward her. "These have been cleaned and dried already; they need only chopping."

He swiveled with the smooth motion of a dancer, lightly grasped the handle of a knife hanging from the magnetic strip, turned, and reversed his grip to hand it to her.

"Mind your fingers, my dear. I haven't any plans to dine on your blood this evening."

She closed her fingers around the handle.

"I see you're making no promises about tomorrow, though."

"One ought not get ahead of oneself, my dear." He smiled, showing his teeth, and allowed her to take the knife.

"Vampire," she muttered, grinning. But the grin faded as the nagging voice in her head began listing the wounds he had inflicted on his victims – the known ones, anyway. She lowered her head and set to chopping the vegetables to his specifications, mentally kicking herself as she tried to shove her discomfort aside. The struggle commanded more of her attention than the vegetables, which suffered as a result.

Across the counter, his hands nimbly folded and rolled, adding some sort of stuffing to flattened chicken breasts. His fingers never stopped moving as he spoke.

"You've grown quiet, Clarice. Am I not as amusing as you expected?"

Of course he would have noticed her discomfort; of course he would call her on it.

"I don't know about _you_, Doctor, but I think _I'm_ providing plenty of amusement value."

"Mmm. I may have overestimated your skill with a knife."

She let the chuckle come, staring at the mismatched chunks of carrots and celery lying on the cutting board and setting the knife beside them. It was… kind… of him to give her the out, to pretend he hadn't been more amused by the rapidly shifting moods he undoubtedly detected in her. Thank god for the doctor's courtesy, she thought.

"It's not really my weapon of choice, Doctor."

…and now she had just stepped in it again.

"I think maybe I ought to stop talking. Entirely. Take a vow of silence, maybe."

"And deny me the pleasure of your voice? I hardly think that's necessary, my dear."

"Of course you don't. You probably think it's hilarious." She gestured at his neutral, composed expression. "This is how you look when you're having hysterics."

The barest hint of a smile curved his lips. He lightly tugged the cutting board across the counter, picked up the knife, and commenced a flurry of motion over the vegetables.

The pieces went in a pan surrounding the rolled-up chicken concoctions, a sauce sparingly covered all, and the entire thing went into the oven.

"Now, I believe you were busy castigating yourself for enjoying a bit of badinage with a man you feel you ought to despise. Did you wish to continue with that, Clarice?"

It was easy to hate him for his perception at times.

"I was really hoping not to, Doctor."

"I'm delighted to hear it." He washed and dried his hands quickly and efficiently. "We have an hour before dinner will be ready; there's something I'd like to show you upstairs, if you're willing."

Clarice stretched her arm over the island.

"Dazzle me, Doctor."


	7. Chapter 7

It was a tall order, but he thought he had indeed managed to dazzle her. At the very least, her eyes had gone wide as he opened the door and gestured her inside – and she hadn't hesitated to cross the room and lay her fingers on the neck of the violin waiting for her.

The second-floor music room had elevated this townhome above the others he had considered for their holiday; they had no need for yet another bedroom, nursery, or playroom. A music room, though… that had been a necessity, once he had discovered it was available. The piano had come with the room; the violin he had acquired for Clarice's use.

She had already set to tuning the instrument, a process that morphed into a set of scales that took a languid turn into… ah. Vivaldi. _L'estate_. Appropriate, as the summer solstice would arrive tomorrow.

He watched her from the doorway, her back slightly turned to him, the strength of her arm evident in the long, smooth strokes of the opening and the swift, sharp motions that followed. Her earlier tension was bleeding away with the music. This was the confident, relaxed woman who so delighted him.

With silent steps, he crossed to the piano and seated himself. A moment's thought located the piano reduction in his memory, and he joined his music to her own. His ear caught the briefest falter in her fingering as the piano entered, but she quickly regained her equilibrium and moved to stand beside him. She carried on with the full piece, their fingers dancing together until the storm had passed.

Her grin was wide as she lowered the violin. He returned it with a modest smile of his own.

"An invigorating choice, Clarice."

"I dreamed about this."

"Oh?"

"Playing together. Just like this, you at the piano and me on the violin."

She had rested one hand on the edge of the piano, and her eyes dropped to follow the nervous movement of her fingers. _An embarrassing admission, my dear?_

"When was this, Clarice?"

"A long time ago now, Doctor. Christmas Eve… after we talked about childhood traditions, you remember?"

Not this past year, then, but the year before. When he had still been trapped in his cage, mere months after she had begun visiting.

"So long ago as that, Clarice?"

"I had bought the violin the day before, and I'd started practicing… I wanted to surprise you with a concert. And I dreamed this."

Her mouth twisted for a moment; more quietly, she added, "I hadn't slept that well in… I don't even know how long. It was like a gift."

"I'm honored, Clarice, if I in any way contributed to your restful sleep."

Would it frighten her, he wondered, to hear him admit to the full truth – that he would happily spend every one of his remaining days ensuring her peaceful nights?

She sat down beside him on the bench, her back to the keys, and raised the violin once more.

"Another season, Doctor?"

"Lady's choice, my dear."

And they were off again, fingers dancing with the giddy steps of spring.

* * *

><p>Clarice woke late Monday morning, unsurprising after her late night. The impromptu concert had paused for dinner and dish-washing – a ritual she had insisted upon completing together immediately after eating, and one to which he had acquiesced without question, though she thought he had been mildly surprised – but they had played late into the night afterward, singly and together, until he had teasingly suggested that her yawns had become a melody of their own.<p>

She wasn't ready to explain it to him yet, this… experiment. She wasn't really ready to explain it to herself yet, she admitted, curling her toes into the sheets as she stretched. But the scent of dish soap and the warmth of freshly washed plates were signs of love in the deepest childhood recesses of her mind. She could feel her father's hands at her waist, lifting her to sit on the counter, her heels drumming against the cabinets as her mother ran the water in the sink and the suds bubbled up. There were silly jokes, and laughter, and teasing taps to her nose and chin… and there were whispered words, low and rumbling, her father's head bent close to her mother's ear as their hands mingled in the dishwater.

Happy days, before her mother died and her father became her whole world, before her father died and she was left on her own.

Was that what she wanted? With the doctor? With… Hannibal? She tested the sound of his name in her head, warmth rolling through her belly. Making meals together, doing the dishes together… that wasn't something casual; it wasn't a weeklong fling in a foreign country. That was… something uncomfortably like love.

_Well, do you love him?_

Courage, she reflected, could only go so far. Especially before breakfast.

* * *

><p>Breakfast at the asylum had been a dull, gray, lone experience. For years, Hannibal Lecter had sat alone at the small metal table mere feet from his bed and mechanically, methodically ate the supposedly nutritious, utterly tasteless food deemed acceptable fare by the state of Maryland. He could, and did, make use of his memory of finer meals to enhance the experience, but it had remained, on the whole, a joyless one.<p>

In the nine months since his escape, he had sampled breakfasts in hotel rooms and cafes, indoors and outdoors, from multi-course offerings to the simplicity of toast and tea, but one point had not changed: His breakfast was eaten alone.

This morning, however, that was no longer so. Clarice Starling sat opposite him, eating the meal he had prepared, sharing her presence with him, smelling strongly of the almond-and-honey bath products he had obtained for her, smiling while they talked softly, as befitted the quiet of the morning.

It was difficult, supremely so, to pull his gaze away from her. Three meals, now, he had shared with her at this table. A late lunch Saturday, dinner Sunday, and this, their Monday breakfast. The shine, as it were, had not worn off.

Last night she had stood beside him at the sink, her body nearly pressed against his from ankle to thigh, elbows bumping, drying dishes as he washed them. She had been rather insistent on that point – both that the dish-washing commence immediately upon the conclusion of the meal and that she be allowed to contribute to the endeavor.

It was more than a guest's courtesy in her mind; that much was obvious. Her motivation, however… well. He had time enough to let matters become clear. All the time in the world, perhaps, if only he could convince her to stay.

Patience, he reminded himself. But it was a challenge, when her lovely self was so near – and looking at him now with a slight tilt to her head and an eyebrow raised.

"Is it too much of a cliché to offer a penny for your thoughts, Doctor?"

"As they concern you, my dear, I'm afraid they're worth substantially more than a penny."

She wrinkled her nose, a suggestion of disbelief, as she smiled.

"Charmer."

"You feel I'm lying to you, Clarice?"

Both eyebrows raised now. She shook her head once, slowly.

"Never, Doctor. You're very good at misdirection and witty banter, I'll give you that, but in all of the talks we've shared, I've never once felt you were outright lying to me."

"Because I have not, and I will not, Clarice."

She sipped her coffee, her eyes firmly fixed on his face. He admired the sleek line of her neck as he waited for her pronouncement.

"A sign of respect, Doctor?"

He hummed lightly in agreement. "You have the strength within you to accept hard truths, Clarice. I would be doing you a disservice were I to lie to you."

"The idea that you're thinking about me isn't really a hard truth to accept, Doctor." Her fork toyed with the fresh melon on her plate; not a hard truth, no, but one that still engendered mixed responses from his Starling. "And it's hardly a surprise, given the way you've been staring at me since we sat down. You're usually much more circumspect."

"Shall I take that as a question, Clarice?" He had been more blatant in his perusal than she would have been accustomed to seeing from him, true; he might have hoped that she believed it was entirely intentional and not a sign of his slipping control in her presence.

"If you like." She stabbed the melon with her fork and lifted it to her mouth. The juice made her lips shine.

"It has been quite a while since I've had a breakfast partner, Clarice, and you are not merely any partner. Circumspection has been my habit for many years – whimsy has not always been kind, you see – but my current pursuit requires a measure of openness and risk-taking. I'm unlikely to attain my goal if I refuse to share anything of myself, don't you agree?"

She swallowed. Her head bobbed in a slight nod, a movement she might not have noticed making.

"I think your… current pursuit… would appreciate that, yes."

"Mmm. It's a delicate matter, isn't it? A balancing act in which one must make one's appreciation known without giving offense. I've often erred on the side of caution in our previous encounters, Clarice, but your presence here is as novel for me as it is for you. Some adjustments must be made, hmm? For me, that might include the realization that I may, if I choose, look upon my lovely breakfast companion and enjoy her presence without the imposed restriction of visiting hours or the knowledge that it may be weeks before I have the opportunity to do so again."

From her stillness, it seemed he had indeed surprised her with his candid response. The direct approach was an amusing new tool that he might finally put to use, now that it seemed it would not send her running.

"It's nice to see you, too, Doctor." Her mouth quirked in a half-smile. She held her fork out to him, fresh melon speared on the end. "For me, those adjustments might include the realization that society is no longer protecting you from my predatory instincts."

He smiled softly at her teasing reference to their chat the previous summer, recalling with pleasure the way her fingers had rested against the glass and how her accent had deepened as she first confessed to feeling something… more.

Her eyes were warm and laughing as he leaned forward and delicately plucked the fruit from her fork with his teeth. It would be best, he thought, as his mind assailed him with images of her offering him more than mere fruit, if they left quickly for their day of sightseeing. The temptation might prove too irresistible otherwise.


	8. Chapter 8

They had crossed the river to explore Castle Church after breakfast, pausing on the castle wall along the way to view the city from its height; Clarice found the church's stained glass as lovely as the guidebook had promised. The charming medieval buildings of St. Arnual had been next on the list.

It was coming on lunchtime now; the town hall looked interesting, but it was clear back across the river, and she figured they really ought to finish exploring the west side before heading back. The Basilica St. Johann would be the final stop of the day, she supposed, being close to the house as it was. The town hall might make for a good penultimate stop. Maybe if they—

"Please excuse me for a moment, Clarice."

Her head in the guidebook, eyes scanning the map to plan the route to their next destination, she nodded distractedly.

"Hmm? Sure, Doctor."

She looked up from the guidebook a moment later to find him missing. A small commotion had her twisting around in time to see three boys scattering, feet flying as they ran down the street. The doctor stood in front of a smaller boy, quietly examining what looked to be a set of bloody knuckles.

The boy wasn't crying, she noted, but he had the resigned, slumping shoulders of a child awaiting a scolding. Undeserved, she expected, thinking of the three larger boys who had fled so quickly once an adult had taken an interest. The foot traffic on the street was light, but not so light that a dozen or so people wouldn't have seen the altercation. The doctor had been the only one to intervene.

She watched him, thoughtful, as he interacted with the child. Praised him, perhaps, from the way the boy's head came up and his shoulders squared. The child curled his injured hand into a fist, wincing only slightly, and the doctor subtly adjusted its position. A medical examination or a correction to the boy's fighting style?

The doctor nodded at something the boy had said and gestured gracefully in her direction. She didn't bother to hide her stare; she wasn't ashamed of watching him, and there was little point in any case. The boy smiled and waved at her before darting off. The doctor returned to her side at a more modest pace.

"Everything OK?" Her tone was light.

"Tolerably so, though I expect the young bullies will merely find other prey today."

There was… something… in his voice beyond practiced neutrality. Clarice chose her words carefully.

"It offends you. Their behavior."

The edge in his voice sharpened. "Doesn't it you?"

Did bullying offend her? Of course it did; why wouldn't it? _Oh. He thinks I'm insulting him… that I'm surprised he would take offense. Not careful enough on that word choice. Or the tone, maybe. Or… he wouldn't care if others thought that of him. Just me? _

She lightly wrapped her free hand around his.

"It angers me," she clarified. "It makes me want to hit something" – some_one_, she didn't say – "which really only teaches a bully to be stronger next time until nothing bigger and badder can come along."

"Mmm. As a child, I found a more… definitive… display of force was typically required." His voice had returned to its natural, thoughtful tone, the edge disappearing back inside him somewhere she couldn't reach. "Maturity brought with it the realization that restrained menace was often more effective in dealing with bullies. Perhaps it will for you as well."

She blinked at him, the questions tumbling around in her head. Did he think her immature? Was he suggesting she was like him in her responses to violence? What did he mean by definitive – was it a euphemism for deadly? When he was a child?

She thought of the lessons he had given her in anger management, his ability to step outside his emotional response, beyond even how she could compartmentalize her feelings and reactions until after the workday was done. Had he learned it through trial and error, battling in the streets with bullies?

His hand squeezed hers back.

"Ask, Clarice, if you feel ready to hear the answers you seek."

She wasn't surprised that her silence or her expression or, hell, even her scent or something else no one but him would ever notice had given her away. Was she ready for those answers? Not all of them, she thought, her mind shying from the knowledge. What was it he had told her last summer? Ah.

"There's no rush, though, right?"

His voice was warm and welcoming as he responded. If he had been disappointed by her hesitation, she thought, he had hidden it more easily than his earlier irritation.

"No, Clarice, there's no rush. The invitation stands, whenever you feel ready for it."

She smiled, then, thinking it an invitation he had likely never extended to another. For now, she was content with that.

* * *

><p>Clarice was watching the dance floor again. Her face expressed a mixture of wistfulness and apprehension. The doctor considered the state of her plate and his own. Close enough to empty; perhaps it was time for a bit of post-dinner exercise. True, they had traipsed all over the city in the afternoon, but his lovely Starling had seemed energized rather than fatigued by the activity.<p>

"Would you care to dance, Clarice?"

"Wha- me?" She shook her head, though her eyes darted back to the dance floor. "I can't dance, Doctor."

"Nonsense, my dear. You can and you will." He stood and offered her his hand. "Now, if you please."

Would she decline and leave him standing with an empty hand? She was stubborn, true; it wasn't outside the realm of possibility. But she was also unlikely to back down from a challenge.

Ah. Yes, she had laid her napkin aside. She stood, placing her hand in his and leaning in close.

"I really can't dance, Doctor." Her voice was little more than a whisper. "I never learned how."

"I believe you once informed me that everything was an elegant art in my hands, Clarice." He tugged lightly on her hand, and she allowed him to escort her to the floor. "Permit me to suggest that you simply place yourself in my hands and trust that I will not lead you astray, hmm?"

She nodded, her face finally calm, though he could feel the jump in her pulse under his fingertips. He lifted her left hand to his shoulder, stroking her arm before dropping his hand to her waist, and gathered her remaining hand in his own.

"Try not to think, my dear."

Her raised eyebrows and deadpan expression clearly communicated her thoughts about that idea.

"Mmm, I know, I might as well ask you not to breathe."

Had she noticed they were moving? No, not yet; her motion was fluid, graceful, and entirely unaware, guided simply by the shift of his weight and the press of his hands.

"Clarice?"

"Hmm?"

He leaned toward her ear.

"You're dancing."

"No, I'm n—"

And there was the tension in her back, the slight stumble in her step, the eyes darting to her feet.

"It was much easier when you weren't thinking about it, hmm?"

Her eyes briefly closed; her lips pursed.

"Cursing me in your thoughts, Clarice?"

"Trying to think about not thinking, Doctor. It's about as easy as it sounds."

"Yes, rather counterproductive, I should think." He let his hand slide over her hip with just the slightest bit of extra pressure under his thumb. "Perhaps if you refocused your thoughts on what you _feel_, you would find it easier to keep the rhythm."

Her next inhalation carried a hint of strain; her exhalation emerged as a soft laugh.

"Well, what I _feel_ is definitely making it hard to _think_, Doctor."

"Then all is as it should be, Clarice."

He changed directions; she followed without stumbling. His thumb brushed her hip once more. She twitched under his hand, but she never lost the rhythm.

He would twirl her about the dance floor until she asked for a reprieve or her legs showed signs of fatigue, he decided. It was a socially acceptable method of keeping her in his arms, and he was in no hurry to let her go.


	9. Chapter 9

She shouldn't be quite so close, she knew. There had been space between them on the dance floor at the restaurant. But here, in her home away from home, dancing to the music on the stereo, she had drifted closer until her hair brushed his shoulder. Any closer, and she suspected she would feel his heart beating beside her own.

Already, she could feel his breath ghosting across her cheek. Calm. Steady. Slow and easy, unaffected by her nearness. That really wasn't fair, she reflected; her own breathing had picked up and grown shallow. His skin carried a spicy note – aftershave or cologne, she presumed – that tickled her senses. It was a struggle not to bury her face in his neck.

Although… what would be the harm? _He's been seducing you slowly all night. No, not all night – for years. Would it be so wrong to give in?_

She inhaled deeply and closed the final distance between them, reveling in the press of his chest against her breasts and the brush of her knee against his. He merely tucked her hand against his chest and rubbed his fingers across her knuckles: soothing, welcoming, but not pressuring.

She pressed a kiss to his neck, gathering her courage. The hand at her waist slipped around to her back, the broad spread of his fingers lying just north of inappropriate.

The pattern of behavior was becoming clear despite her preoccupation with his nearness. He was receptive, but he would only react in line with her overtures. No matter how out of control her emotions made her feel, he was subtly reminding her that she was, in fact, in control.

Slipping her right hand from his grasp, she laid it flat against his chest and slowly raised it to his collar, pressing onward, over the fabric to the bare skin of his throat, and further still, until her fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck.

Her head tilted back; her eyes met his. The heat she saw there belied the steadiness of his breathing, the slow beat of his heart. He was far from unaffected, she thought; he was simply better at hiding it from her. Which meant he probably wanted her to see that heat… which meant it was a challenge.

And she'd never met a challenge she didn't devote herself to mastering.

_He knows that. He's manipulating you to give him what he wants._

_I don't care. I want this, too._

She pressed her fingers firmly against the back of his neck and leaned forward to bring her lips to his. He didn't resist.

The shock was just as she remembered, the flutter of excitement the same as she had felt last year as she knelt on her bed and touched his mouth for the first time.

She was bolder this time, she thought, eager to pull him against her, parting his lips with her tongue. It was as though her arousal had been building since their first meeting, waiting only for her permission to unlock the door and flow outward to meet him. It rippled through her; she shuddered against him.

Her arms twined around his head, pulling his face to her neck. He rewarded her with light, teasing kisses behind her ear. She tipped her head further to the side, animal awareness of her vulnerable position making her shiver.

His teeth scraped over her pulse under her jaw. Carotid artery, her brain supplied, was he – _oh!_ He suckled in time with her heartbeat. Her knees buckled as she imagined where else he might use his mouth, and his arms caught her up before she could stumble.

Clarice moved backward with cautious but quick steps, it suddenly seeming urgent to move to a more stable surface – which at this point was anything other than her feet. The doctor moved with her; his mouth never parted from her neck.

_Marking your territory? I hope you have some turtlenecks for me in that dresser, Doctor._

Her calves pressed against something soft – the couch, she thought – and she forced her arms down from his neck, twisting their bodies and pressing on his chest. His head lifted, eyes burning.

"Sit," she commanded, even as her mouth moved to claim his once more. Her arousal built as he followed her direction without hesitation, though she ought to have known he would do so his way – which, it seemed, involved draping her across his thighs.

Five tiny buttons descended from the v-neck of her dress. She grasped his left hand, currently resting in neutral territory near her waist, and lifted it to the buttons, her own fingers pushing the first one open.

His kisses trailed down her throat as his fingers lazily slipped the other buttons free. Her arm thrust between his back and the couch, hand gripping the fabric of his shirt, pressing into the muscles of his back.

Her bra had a front catch. His fingers paused over it, stroking lightly, up and down, and she roused herself from sensual stupor long enough to whisper to him.

"Open it."

His fingers twitched, and the pressure across her chest eased. He brushed the fabric aside, bra and dress both, with the side of his hand. His smallest finger slid across her rapidly tightening nipple. He chased it with his breath.

She moaned as his mouth closed over her breast, his tongue already seeking out her nipple with teasing flicks. The heat and pressure sent her surging forward, eager for more. His hands danced over her back, supporting her weight, easing her tension even as his mouth renewed it; she arched toward him as he moved his mouth to her left breast and repeated his actions.

_Oh god._ His mouth was amazing. His hands were amazing. If he wanted—

_Do you think his victims thought he was so amazing?_

_What? Do I… what?_

_Here you are, moaning and panting like some sex-starved slut for a serial killer. Jesus, what's wrong with you? He's killed people with those hands. He's eaten them with that mouth. Even if he doesn't want to kill and eat you, he's done things—_

_There's no sexual component to his crimes. He's never—_

_And that makes it OK? Tell yourself with a straight face that that makes it OK, Clarice. Who the hell are you now? Do you even know yourself anymore? Are you going to spread your legs and beg the killer to fuck you?_


	10. Chapter 10

Her body had tensed.

The doctor paused immediately. His pliant, eager, vocal partner was now stiff, still, and silent. The scent of arousal was fading from her skin. Though she had been the instigator, he now sensed he had rushed things by accepting her invitation. _She is not ready for this step. _

He backed off with care, pulling the open flaps of her dress to cover her bare breasts. Calming his body was a simple matter of deliberate breaths and attentiveness to his heartbeat. Not desirable, no, but relatively easy. Determining the nature of Clarice's upset… that would be the challenge.

Her eyes stared in his direction, but they were unfocused, snagged on some thought he could not discern. He brushed her shoulder with his fingers.

"Clarice."

She twitched away from his touch, her head shaking slightly. But then… then she pasted a smile on her face and reached out for him.

"Sorry… too many thoughts. Where were we?"

He gripped her wrist with enough force to make her drop the false smile.

"Clarice. Please do not profess to a level of comfort you do not feel." His tone warned her against continuing such deception; he could see her reconsidering her reply under his hard stare.

"I… I _am_ sorry. I didn't mean… I don't want to be a tease, Doctor. That's not fair to you. Just… just give me a minute."

Shame colored her face, but there was a hint of anger there as well, an image of self-disgust that he wished never to see again.

He softened his grip and his tone.

"Do you think, Clarice, that fairness, and not your comfort, is my primary concern in this matter?"

She shook her head in what appeared to be dismissal rather than negation, as though the question itself were irrelevant.

"I started things, Doctor. I shouldn't have started them if I wasn't willing to finish them."

"Mmm, I see." He pressed forward, twisting his body to box her in against the sofa. "So if we had engaged in some mutually enjoyable kissing, and you had then said 'no' when I attempted to disrobe you, I would be perfectly justified in continuing despite your protests?"

"What? No, of course not."

"No," he mimicked. "Of course not. And yet your first instinct, upon determining that 'no' is indeed the answer you intended to make, is to label yourself a tease and soldier on despite your discomfort."

"I never said—"

"Your body did, Clarice. It spoke quite loudly, though you yourself did not. Do you think me so discourteous – so driven by the male urge to procreate – that I could ignore your distress?"

"No, I… I don't know what I thought. I just… I…." The look of self-disgust had returned to her face, stronger now. "I threw myself at you and then I just froze."

"Surely you had a thought that precipitated such action – or inaction."

She pushed against him; he allowed her to slide her feet to the floor and stand. Her back turned as she stepped away, the hurried movements of her hands suggesting she was refastening her clothes, hiding herself away from him physically as well as emotionally.

"There will be no solution if you cannot articulate the problem, Clarice."

"Things just moved too quickly, Doctor. I panicked. It won't happen again."

"Only one of those statements is true, Clarice. You panicked, yes, but 'things,' as you say, were entirely in your control – and it will happen again unless you confront the original thought that so distressed you."

"Fine." Her voice was flat, closed to him. "I'll give it some more thought to make sure it doesn't happen again. Satisfied?"

She teemed with loathing and disgust; perhaps aimed at him, perhaps at herself, perhaps at them both. Such a state of affairs could not be allowed to continue.

"Hardly, Clarice. The evening has not progressed as either one of us would have preferred, it seems, and you clearly hold the answer to the question of why or you would not have offered to give it more thought later. I'll have the answer now, my dear."

Her eyes blazed as she turned to face him.

"The hell you will."

"There's no call for foul language, Clarice." He rose to his feet. "And I _will_ have that answer."

"I don't have to tell you a damn thing."

"You never did, Clarice. But you _wanted_ to, didn't you? That's why you kept coming back, hmm? That's why you're here now. Because where I am is where you want to be.

"Do you hate yourself for it, Clarice? Is it Daddy's voice that condemns you? Or perhaps your surrogate father instead – does Uncle Jack whisper in your ears at night and remind you to beware the monster? Do they tell you my voice, my touch, has tainted you?

"Would you scrub it from your skin, Clarice? Will you run to the shower and wash away any trace of me? Do you think it so simple? Is it corruption that rushes through your veins when we touch or merely a higher truth?"

The tension in her right arm and balled fist had turned her knuckles white. His eyes danced as he waited to see whether she would attempt to strike him. Hers was a fiery, passionate rage, the flush on her skin equally as enticing as it had been when arousal had painted it there. But she mastered herself, finally, though pushing the rage aside had made her body shake.

She grit her teeth as she spoke.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I want you. Yes, sometimes I hate myself for it. Yes, every voice of reason in my head tells me I'm disgusting, sick, wrong. You're right, Doctor, about all of it." She laughed, a hopeless, broken sound. "When are you not?"

He could not ease her pain in this. Were he to try, his voice would merely become another in the chorus, as resented as the others that attempted to dominate her thoughts. He had no desire to be an authority figure whom she would come to rebel against; he would not willingly forge that association in her mind.

"You are at war with yourself, Clarice. I have no place in this battle." He resisted the urge to kiss her, to clasp her shoulders, to wish her well, and instead inclined his head in acknowledgement of the warrior before him. "I do hope you'll seek your bed soon, my dear. The hour is late."

He crossed the room and mounted the stairs.

"Good night, Clarice."

Her silence in reply was to be expected.

* * *

><p>Clarice stared as the doctor disappeared upstairs.<p>

_Did he just…_

_Wind you up and leave you standing here alone, more confused than before? Yeah, he did. You've met the man, right? You trying to tell yourself you didn't expect that?_

_But he—_

_Always has the answers? You saying you can't figure them out for yourself? What's he going to say? He knows you know what he's done. Either he doesn't think he needs to defend himself or he knows you'd just dismiss his words anyway. As a witness, he's biased in his own favor, and it's hardly as though there's a neutral third party you can consult. He won't lie to you – and he won't let you lie to yourself, either._

She sank back down onto the couch. The cushions retained the warmth of his body heat. She curled into them, pulling her body into a compact knot, and tried desperately to shut out the voices crowding her head.


	11. Chapter 11

The scent of her sorrow lingered in the front room. She was not yet awake; he had paused at her door on his way down and listened to her steady breaths. What would it be like, he wondered, to fall asleep to that rhythm each night, to wake to it each morning?

A foolish thought; such a scenario would be out of reach until she had wrestled her demons. Last night had been merely a beginning. He could not expect her to overturn years of patterned behavior after only a few days in his unrestrained company.

_The surest way forward is a cautious one – and still it will hold painful lessons for us both, I trust._

He could not depend upon her judgment in this; she pushed herself too far and too fast, reaching eagerly for what she wanted with both hands before she was ready to accept it. _She sees the goal but not the path. I must take more care. My own restraint must stand for hers as well._

A kernel of impatience rose in him. Restraint was not his first impulse in regards to any matter involving Clarice Starling, to be certain. Nevertheless, such impatience was unworthy of her. He pursued the feeling to its source.

The impatience was not simply borne out of his desire for her sexually, he was pleased to discover. That, truly, would have been an insult to them both. No, the desire ran deeper. He could not ever recall feeling such a need for… companionship. He enjoyed her presence; he felt a bereft twinge in her absence. It would be… difficult… to accept, he admitted, if she chose to leave at the end of the week.

Her pleasure, her playfulness, even her anger and her pain, all contributed to a fullness, a richness to his days that art and culture, lovely as they were, could not match. He enjoyed his freedom, of course; that was not in question. But her presence enhanced it in hundreds of minute ways. She herself was likely unaware of the extent of her effect; it was to be hoped that she would come to recognize it in the days ahead, to accept and embrace it as he had.

If she did not, he would have to reconsider less appealing options.

A creak from above heralded Clarice's awakening; the doctor shook off his thoughts and proceeded to prepare breakfast. They had a lengthy day ahead, exploring Trier to the north, and he planned to keep her entertained there until it was time to dress for dinner.

Perhaps leaving the house for the day would help her leave behind her confusion and sadness as well.

* * *

><p>Trier was probably a lovely city. The countryside on the journey – just under an hour by car, with the doctor at the wheel – had probably been lovely, too. Clarice couldn't make either statement with any certainty, however, as her focus remained turned inward.<p>

They had started the day at a winery, sampling prized Rieslings and an apple wine that seemed to be a source of regional pride. Clarice had imagined it mulled with spices, a mug sharing its warmth in her cupped hands, watching snow falling beyond the window as the doctor built up the fire. _Beautiful scene, isn't it? Don't forget the body thawing in the fridge for dinner. _

Similar thoughts had plagued her all morning. What little sleep she had managed hadn't been much different. And yet it wasn't so much that she believed him incapable of refraining from killing. She was certain he _could_ do it, as killing seemed a choice rather than a compulsion for him, but _would_ he?

And more troubling: Even if he did so, it would not erase the lives he had already taken, the pain he had already caused. She doubted he felt remorse for those actions. Society might have judged them wrong, but he did not. She would have to accept that, if she intended to stay with him.

_Stay? No… no, no, this is a vacation. Just that. One week. Isn't it?_

It was for her, she thought. But his intentions and expectations might be different. He didn't seem to be conflicted at all, though he might simply have been hiding it better than she did. And she had no illusions about that, at least – he surely had been aware of her preoccupation for most of the day and seemed disinclined to disrupt her thoughts. Verbally, anyway.

What he _was_ doing, though, was a distraction of its own. He was touching her. Nothing inappropriate – she nearly laughed aloud at the idea of him acting so discourteously – but he had been guiding her about with a hand on her arm or her back, a gentle clasp of her hand, a brush to her shoulder… an unending stream of contact. She could hardly help that her body was so responsive to his, that her mind and body were warring with one another.

She couldn't tell whether it was an intentional distraction – his way of politely interrupting her unwelcome thoughts – or a desire he opted not to check. Both, maybe. _A distraction he's particularly enjoying. Because he likes to touch me. And I like him touching me. _

_Until you remember what he's done._

She sighed. This entire relationship, whatever it was, had been much easier to deal with when her suitor had been behind bars.

Clarice stopped dead in the street, horrified, blinking furiously to stop the tears welling in her eyes. She had never been so ashamed. Was she the sort of person to wish that on him – the daily soul-damaging life in a barren dungeon under the thumb of a lecherous, self-aggrandizing, bullying dictator – just to ease her own conscience? To make herself feel better about… caring… for him?

She swallowed and tasted bile in the back of her throat. Her ears buzzed.

The doctor was speaking German. Not to her, she supposed; he knew she couldn't speak it. Then she was moving, her feet stumbling backwards, his arms holding her upright, her face tucked against his neck. She felt coolness as they stepped into the shade and roughness against her back; she turned her head and found that she was leaning against a building.

A water bottle rose into her line of sight; the glass rim pressed against her lips a moment later.

"Drink, Clarice. Just a sip, mind."

The doctor's voice still sounded distant, cutting through the buzz of static. She sipped obediently. She had three sips before he took the bottle away. It was enough; the bilious taste had receded. The buzzing was leaving her ears.

When she looked up, it was directly into the doctor's eyes as he assessed her condition.

"I'm OK," she mumbled. Here he was – concerned, helpful, _caring_ – while she had been thinking about how much simpler her life had been with him behind bars.

"Are you certain, Clarice? You appear decidedly not 'OK,' as it were."

She grimaced.

"If you weren't so understanding, Doctor, I could hate you. I could box you up and tie a bow around you and never face the things I don't like about myself."

He seemed unsurprised by her pronouncement.

"I've been boxed before, Clarice. That was easier for you, wasn't it?"

She nodded dumbly, still ashamed of the feeling.

"Yes." Her voice was a mere whisper, nearly inaudible among the sounds of the pedestrian traffic moving around them. "I'm sorry, Doctor."

His eyes flickered with something like impatience; he leaned in closer, and she was suddenly aware of the feeling of his feet bracing her own against falling and his left hand on her waist.

"Is that what you want of me, Clarice?" His voice was a low hiss. "A pet to ease your daily torments?"

She wondered, oddly, if this was the face and tone he had presented to the young bullies yesterday to make them scatter. The implied menace stiffened her spine.

"Is that what _you_ want of _me_, Doctor?" She matched him, tone for tone. "The gifts, the outings, the proverbial pats on the head when I've come to some conclusion you approve of, the scoldings when I haven't – what am I but some pet you'll eventually tire of and put down?"

His face hardened for a moment, and the hand on her waist gripped her with uncomfortable ferocity. But it was a moment only. He stepped back, then, leaving her with the same personal space one might give any acquaintance.

"It seems, Clarice, that we misunderstand each other's intentions in equal measure." His voice was smooth, calm, evenly modulated – as though the… anger?… of a moment ago had never been. "Are you well enough to continue, or did you wish to return to Saarbrucken?"

She concentrated on her breathing, on smoothing her own expression as he had done. Techniques he had taught her, now brought to bear against him. The irony stung her. Was he proud beneath the mask of indifference he presented?

It would be good to change the subject, she thought.

"I'd rather continue, please. You've only taken me to the Roman gate and the amphitheater so far; weren't you taking me in the thermal baths next?"

The doctor blinked as though she'd startled him; his tongue briefly touched his upper lip.

"Of course, Clarice. The baths next."

She pushed off the wall, determined not to let one conversation ruin their day together, promising herself she would stop second-guessing her emotional attachment. He wasn't behind bars now, and she had no true wish to put him there again, no matter what the conflicting voices in her head wanted.

Better, then, to consider what she _did_ want of him.


	12. Chapter 12

They had returned to Saarbrucken for dinner, stopping first at the house to refresh themselves and change from casual tourist garb to more formal apparel. The doctor was pleased, overall, with the day's progress; Clarice had voiced more of her difficulties to him, an important step in conquering them, no matter how difficult it was to hear them.

He had, perhaps, overreacted; his control was far from perfect where she was concerned, and his anger had not been entirely leashed. But she had not been cowed; no, anger in him found its match in her. She would step up rather than back down.

And she had mastered herself nearly as quickly as he had done. Had her phrasing been purposeful, a deflection aimed at his libido? Or was anger simply a natural trigger for her arousal? He had not suppressed the flash of desire that ran through him at the thought of taking her in the baths, though surely that was not – on the surface – what she had meant. Whether it was intentional or subconscious, however… well. Either was an enticing thought.

And now… she had done it again, he noted. It seemed his suggestions, however minor, utterly dictated her fashion decisions. The act was both gratifying and disconcerting. He was not fool enough to believe he disliked seeing her in the garments he himself had chosen, but he had expected… defiance. Independence.

The lack of it seemed uncharacteristic. Where had his warrior gone? Or was this some new tactic?

Nevertheless, he saluted her hand with his lips as he pulled out her chair and seated her at their table.

"You look lovely, Clarice." A true statement, for all that he could not reconcile the oddity of her continuing behavior. "The dress suits you."

"I know."

A bold, confident statement. Perhaps she was not only deferring to his judgment? Perhaps she simply agreed with his choice.

"You're thinking too much, Doctor."

"My apologies, my dear. You're quite correct; you deserve the full measure of my attention."

She smiled, shaking her head.

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh?"

"About the dress. You're thinking too much about the dress."

He scrutinized her face, quite certain his own maintained a studied neutrality. Surely he was not so transparent, even to her.

"Why do you say that, my dear?"

"It bothers you that I haven't fought you over this proprietary male behavior of yours. Maybe, you think, I'm too cowed by your dominant personality. Maybe, you think, I'm not the woman you predicted I was." Her eyebrow arched. "Am I close?"

His lips pursed; it was as good as a yes, he supposed, though truthfully it covered the panicked-but-pleased flash of thought: _How well does she know me?_

The waiter appeared with the wine the doctor had pre-selected, presenting it for tasting and pouring for them both. The doctor was prepared to demur as the young man inquired after their orders; Clarice had not even touched her menu yet, and he would not have her rushed. But she spoke before he could do so.

"I'm sure whatever Herr Clark suggests will be fine."

_A challenge, Clarice?_

"If you're certain, my dear."

She shrugged, leaning slightly away from the table.

"You have excellent taste; I'm not worried."

He spoke to the waiter in rapid, fluent German, requesting few alterations to the standard menu fare; he had dined in the same establishment last week to assess its suitability and found it more than acceptable. The service, too, was competent and discreet; the young man nodded politely and took his leave without once ogling Clarice.

And she was, the doctor reflected, well worth the attention, her natural loveliness framed by the sleeveless frock that showed her toned musculature to its best advantage. He had chosen it for that reason, but that did not yet explain why _she_ had chosen to accept it.

Her voice – steady, calm – seemed to cut right to the heart of his musing.

"You haven't asked me, you know. Why I've been taking your suggestions."

She narrowed her eyes; her head tipped slightly to the right.

"You don't want me to be doing it just to please you… and yet you do. And it would be the easy answer, to admit my own fashion ignorance, commend your superior knowledge, and simper and fawn and pretend that looking pretty for you is my only goal in life.

"But that's not the real answer, Doctor. Do you want to know why?"

"Most urgently, Clarice."

Her eyes flicked downward for a moment. When they met his gaze once more, they brimmed with a fiery heat that consumed him utterly. Her tone was low, intimate, a gift to him.

"Because it pleases _me_, Doctor. Because I feel your eyes moving over me and it pleases me. There's no need to fight you over fashion, Doctor, not when it's a victory for us both."

He schooled his body to restraint, lest he divest her of that lovely gown now. _Now._ Irrationality growled low in his belly. _Mine._

Caution, he reminded himself. She was a cub in this arena yet, testing her claws, sharpening them on the edge of his desire. No matter the extent of her previous experience – no matter how much a lioness she looked and acted at this moment – he must encourage her instincts while not allowing himself to forget her liminal status.

As problems went, it was both a pleasure and a discomfort.

He lowered his tone to match her own, the quiet rumble of desire underlying his every word.

"How long, Clarice, hmm? How long have you hungered for my appreciation? Do you remember the first time you truly longed to feel my… gaze… upon you?"

Her pupils had dilated until inky black obliterated all but the thinnest ring of color. Her fingers twitched, restless, on the tabletop, but he did not yet reach for her hand. In the charged atmosphere, combustion might ensue.

She calmed her fingers – and bought herself a moment to answer, he noted – by raising her wine glass to her lips and taking a small sip. She swallowed. She lowered the glass gently back to the table.

"The puzzle box," she murmured, softly enough that had the waiter still been standing at her elbow he might not have heard her speak. "You sent the puzzle box and I wanted…."

She looked aside briefly, the confident lioness momentarily giving way to the cub's nervous uncertainty. He thought to speak, and so coax her past it, but she continued on her own.

"I put on the nightgown you had sent. I hadn't tried it on before, but I… it was a compulsion. I couldn't ignore it. I sat on the bed, turning the box over and over in my hands… and when I found your note inside, I thought… I thought," – she licked her lips and her eyes grew distant – "I thought what if I were the puzzle, with your hands exploring and pressing and unlocking secrets, and I heard your voice in my head and I…."

Her skin flushed a lovely pale pink.

"I… was thinking about you. And I wanted you to… see… me."

He knew the gifts he had chosen; he knew the curves of Clarice's form. He knew, from her own lips, that the nightgown had fit her perfectly. He knew the layout and style of her bedroom.

It was not difficult to picture her there, draped in blue silk, aching for his touch, substituting her own instead; no, the difficulty lay in _not_ picturing her there. The difficulty lay in having allowed the conversation to progress in such a direction while they sat in a public restaurant. The difficulty lay in not _exploring_ such matters immediately.

_Mmm. I could hardly have predicted she would grow so bold before dessert. _

He allowed a smile to part his lips.

"I'm certain I would have appreciated the sight quite thoroughly, Clarice."

* * *

><p>The food had been excellent; allowing the doctor to order for them both had paid off handsomely, Clarice thought, as he held up her light jacket and she slipped her arms into the sleeves. His hands briefly caressed her arms, and she shivered in response.<p>

His voice came softly from over her right shoulder.

"Not too cold, my dear?"

"Not cold," she agreed, her voice equally soft.

No, it was pure nervous excitement driving her, a flutter low in her belly that wanted… that just _wanted_. And tonight, she wouldn't let too much thinking stop her from taking what she wanted.

He was who he was. He was _what_ he was. He could not change his past any more than she could change hers, but he could control his actions in the present and the future. He could choose to embrace the better side of his nature… and wasn't he proving that to her every day?

He held the door open, allowing her to precede him out onto the sidewalk. They had lingered over dinner; the sky to the west held only the faintest sliver of purple along the horizon. Yesterday had been the longest day of the year; it was coming on ten o'clock now, and the sun had only just given way to the clear blanket of stars overhead.

Clarice thought of the balcony off the doctor's third-floor retreat as he offered her his arm and they started toward home. Might she see the view from it tonight? Stargazing would make for a romantic end to the evening, though she doubted she had the patience right now for a thorough tour of the skies.

No, anticipation was making her edgy and eager, flooding her mind with images that merely made matters worse. Herself, pressed back against the balcony railing, watching as he knelt before her, her dress sliding upward with his hands, his head bending toward her thighs….

Her fingers tightened on his arm. From the corner of her eye, she saw his head tip toward hers. His nostrils flared slightly, and she knew he had no illusions about what she was thinking. Her scent had given her away, even if she could not yet sense it. He made no comment, though he didn't object when she picked up her pace. Home was only a few blocks away, and she meant to be there before she gave in to impulse and begged him to touch her.

_No, he won't make me beg. _Although, she admitted, he did seem to find her emotional states an endless source of fascination and amusement. _Well… he won't make me beg much._ A quieter voice added to the chorus. _And I might like it. _

_Who am I kidding? I know I'll like it. _

They turned right at the next corner. She recognized the area from her Sunday morning run; three blocks yet. A car passed, the engine momentarily drowning out the rhythmic tapping of their shoes on the pavement. She raised her head to watch it go by, and a flicker of movement elsewhere caught her eye.

Two figures had stepped out of an entry or alleyway up ahead, heading now in their direction. A streetlight glinted off something metal in one's hand.

"Doctor?"

"Mmm, yes, I see them, Clarice."


	13. Chapter 13

The doctor surreptitiously studied the pair moving toward them. Very little subtlety to their strategy; perhaps they felt they wouldn't need it. Muggers. Small-time thieves who likely preyed upon wealthy tourists. Teenagers, by their build, though malnourishment might have kept them thin as rails into adulthood.

The leader – so distinguished by the way the second boy continually looked to him for instruction – sauntered to within conversational distance.

"Hand over your wallet and your watch, old man, and I won't have to frighten ihre kleinen Puderdose."

Clarice narrowed her eyes, clearly registering the intended insult from the young man's leer if not from his words.

The murder of two street thugs would draw unwelcome attention to the neighborhood, a distraction he would not tolerate, for Clarice's safety and his own. Still, the knife secreted in his sleeve could be used to provide sufficient deterrent… were it not for Clarice's elbow even now flying into the young man's nose.

With swift, economical motions, Clarice pulled the talkative one to her with her left hand, sending his pitiful knife to the concrete; slammed her right elbow into his face, spraying blood; and kneed him solidly between the legs. The doctor suppressed contradictory urges to wince and applaud.

Clarice shoved the boy backward into his compatriot, who fumbled to catch him. Her weight shifted forward. Were the area not so exposed, the doctor allowed, he might have simply waited to see what she would do. But their safety and anonymity were of the utmost importance.

He smiled pleasantly at the boys, showing his teeth. "I suggest you run."

The uninjured boy dragged his friend away at their best possible speed – which, granted, was not as excellent as it might have been were the blubbering idiot not clutching his furiously bleeding nose with one hand and his aching genitalia with the other.

Dismissing the incompetent criminals from his thoughts, the doctor turned to Clarice. Her blood yet raced, easily visible as it coursed beneath the pale skin of her neck; her adrenal response had left her muscles with an overabundance of energy for work no longer needed. Her breath came swift but steady.

"Well handled, my dear. Though you were quite quick to step in. Concerned, were you, that my own response would not have been so lenient?"

No response. Either his vicious little Starling was ignoring him or her mind was elsewhere.

Unconcerned, the doctor removed his spare handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket. Gently lifting Clarice's chin with his left hand, he dabbed at the blood spray on her face with the handkerchief in his right. She looked quite the warrior with the fine mist from the unfortunate boy's broken nose decorating her face and neck. There was nothing to be done for the stray spots of blood on her dress, however.

Her face displayed a curious mixture of excitement, distress, and… _fear_. He inhaled her scent along with that of the blood. He doubted the insignificant threat from the young muggers would have been enough to raise such a response from his little lioness. Was she instead afraid of what he might have done?

He leaned in close and ran his tongue along her throat, tasting fear and blood. He licked a path to her ear, lips brushing her skin as he spoke.

"Did you think I would kill them, Clarice? For their insolence?" He dropped his voice to a metallic hiss. "Perhaps you expected I would butcher them on the spot? That my Harpy would slide into their flesh, that I would tear their organs from their still-warm bodies and sink my teeth into them here in the street? Is that what frightens you, little Starling? Do you, too, wish to _run_?"

"No."

Her response was curt but unemotional, he thought. Unusual for her. And fear still clung to her. Uncertainty was a rare state for him – though he admitted it was one he experienced more frequently in the presence of Clarice Starling.

He tucked the handkerchief back in his pocket and offered her his arm. She accepted with no hesitation. He commended himself, then, for recognizing so many months ago that this woman was a puzzle worth a lifetime of study.

_What is it you fear, Clarice?_

They walked the rest of the way home in silence. She paused just inside the door as he closed it behind them.

"A nightcap, Clarice? Something light?" He gestured her toward the main living area, knowing even as he did that she was preparing to decline. It was clear in her body language, the way she shied from his hand. He withheld his sigh.

"No, thank you, Doctor. I think I'll retire for the night."

Her voice carried a monotonic quality that dismissed him entirely; he held none of her attention now. It was… irritating, he admitted, to be so thoroughly unaware of the nature of her upset. Perhaps time apart would be the best thing.

"You may wish to bathe first, Clarice. My hasty ministrations were unable to fully wash away the blood from your little misadventure."

Her back stiffened; her eyes flicked to his for just a moment before she turned and mounted the stairs.

"I'll do that, Doctor. I'd hate to dirty your linens with the blood on my hands."

He watched her until she reached the landing and disappeared down the hall. Goading her had repaid him well. If her words hadn't handed him the necessary clues, the recrimination in her eyes would have.

Even in her anger, she had been efficient – precise – in meting out justice. She had not done more than was necessary to deter the two young thugs, though she had been quicker to take action than he might have expected. He approved, of course; her action had not been dissimilar to his own intention. A fortuitous harmony shared with none other, this combination of instinct and will so like his own.

But her fear… he suspected, were he to unstopper memories best left strangled and tossed into the depths, he might find the merest shadow of that fear. She was afraid of her own potential. He had not been troubled by such thoughts in many years, since long before he came to adulthood.

Hmm. He would need to review, now, the few times he had sensed fear in her. Perhaps it was nothing to do with him at all, and only with herself.

_We shall have to work on that, my dear. Your fear and guilt may not prevent you from acting, but they chain you to unwelcome regrets afterward. It is those thoughts that trouble your sleep and make you doubt and question yourself._

He could hear the pipes running upstairs as he fixed himself a dessert plate. Perhaps she would find absolution in the heat of the water. He sipped his wine and considered the evening. The water shut off; her footsteps overhead and the slight creak of bedsprings revealed her destination.

Faced with two young punks, she had not hesitated, had not attempted a diplomatic solution, had not considered rules and procedure and her own lack of authority as a mere tourist, helpless to—

Ah.

Yes, that painted a logical picture, didn't it?

Her father, in a similar situation, had lost his life. She must have felt quite helpless then, a child waiting for a parent who would never come home. She did not perceive the doctor himself as a father figure, he hoped; that would be quite difficult to overcome. But…

"Am I your new lamb, Clarice? How far would you go to protect me, hmm?" He sipped his wine, rolling the flavor contentedly over his tongue. "I admit, this thought that so frightens you, my dear, is quite thrilling for me."

He sat silently in the breakfast nook as she slept above him, sparks whirling in his eyes, the fierce urge to go to her a challenging exercise in self-restraint.


	14. Chapter 14

Clarice Starling dreamt of blood.

At first it was her father, his clothes soaked in it as he sat with her on the porch swing. She was a small girl, cuddled against his side, her face pressed to his chest, heedless of the slick, cloying fluid staining her skin.

"I'm sorry, Daddy."

His hand stroked her hair, matting it against her skull in tangled, bloody knots.

"It's time to go, pumpkin. You have to save them."

"Save who, Daddy?"

But she could hear them now, her body trembling as she recognized the sound. The lambs still screamed in the barn over the rise.

"I can't. I can't." She shook with fear. Her hands clutched at her father's shirt.

"You have to, baby. There's nobody else can do it. G'wan, now."

He pushed her from the seat. The old wood boards were cold against her bare feet as she trudged across the porch and down the stairs. The house faded away behind her as she touched the ground.

"But they always die, Daddy. They die anyway."

The screaming filled her ears, and she clapped her hands over them to shut it out.

"Stop it! Stop it!"

But she ran, as she always did. The tears mingled with the blood on her face. The barn door beckoned, light spilling at her feet.

She stepped inside, knowing what was coming, unable to stop herself.

The lambs marked for death waited in a pen just outside the far end; it was from there she had once taken one to be saved. Failed, always, breath puffing in the cold, arms tiring, feet stumbling over every stick and stone.

And what punishment for failure?

The butchers looked up from their work – the man with the stunning stick, his partner slitting the lambs' throats before they hoisted them to hang from the beam overhead, blood draining into a trough below. The scent of blood lay so thick in the air that she could taste it on her tongue. She swallowed, gagging with it, and dug her toes into the straw.

She hated this part, hated it and loved it, because she deserved it, didn't she? She hadn't saved the lamb from its fate; it was only fitting that she shared it.

At the end of the line, nearest Clarice, a third man paused in his work slipping the skin from the flesh. He waved the flensing knife in greeting, gesturing her forward.

"Come along now, little one. It's no use to struggle."

And she didn't. Meek, obedient, she crossed the floor and took her place in line. No stunning stick for her, no; it was a mercy she did not deserve. The butcher stood behind her and grasped her chin with sticky fingers, pulling it up and to the left.

The knife slashed across her throat in one fluid movement. She fell to her knees, the straw prickly against her legs, her palms. Blood poured. Her vision blurred. Hands grasped her ankles, rough rope cinching tightly before the world tilted.

She floated in darkness. Waiting.

Silver flashed. Flesh split. Blood spilled.

Again.

Silver. Flesh. Blood.

Again.

"Stop. I want you to stop." Her voice was firm, adult, no longer the quaver of a child in distress.

The hand holding the knife paused.

"Is that truly what you want, Clarice?" The doctor's voice, calm and unemotional. He might have been asking the time.

The knife descended, blood welling up where it passed.

She shuddered.

"You have the power to stop this at any time, Clarice."

"Then I'm telling you to stop."

"Ah. You misunderstand."

The darkness pulled back with shocking abruptness, like a warm blanket cast aside on a cold morning.

Weeping slashes crisscrossed the doctor's chest and abdomen, blood oozing downward with slow, steady precision.

The hand holding the blade was her own. She inhaled on a sob.

"It's quite all right, my dear. You haven't hurt me."

"But I could. I could."

She woke in a cold sweat, body curled in a fetal ball, blankets kicked to the floor.

* * *

><p>Her cry woke him from his rest – a thin, high sob like a child's, a hauntingly familiar sound that had him on his feet, arm outstretched, before he had quite realized he was awake.<p>

He shook off the confusion quickly and dressed himself for the day, though the stars still rode the sky and the clock proclaimed it half past three. The cry came again, a suppressed scream, as he stepped swiftly down the stairs.

Outside her door, he paused. Harsh breaths and soft sobs met his ears. Did she yet sleep, or had her nightmare woken her?

_Are the lambs screaming, Clarice?_

He laid his hand to the wood. He could go to her, wake her, comfort her – this time. But what of the next night, and the next? Palliative care after the fact would not cure the disease that plagued her mind. Better to treat the problem itself rather than its effects.

But it was hard to deny himself when she struggled so mightily, alone, against enemies of her own making. Her conflict was a necessary one – a sign of progress – and the correct move, the pragmatic action, was to leave her to it. If he had been right about her potential, she would come to the correct conclusions in her own time.

And Hannibal Lecter was, in most regards, a highly pragmatic man. So it made little sense that he stood in the hall for the rest of the night, hand pressed uselessly against the door, a silent witness to every hitched breath, every rustle of the sheets, every choked-off scream emanating from her room. It served no purpose, yet he could not pull himself away.

When finally her panicked, slumbering cries gave way to true sobs – the suppressed utterances of a woman awake, aware, attempting to conceal the expression of her emotions – he slipped quietly down the stairs to prepare breakfast for them both. He would need to anticipate her needs with exquisite care this morning, to discover with some subtlety what new patterns of thought had settled in her mind by her words and actions.

If she had wrestled with the thoughts he expected – her fear of her own potential, of the part of her that was most like him – she would not accept comfort from him no matter what conclusions she had reached. Pushing too hard on the notion at this delicate juncture would either break her – unlikely – or drive her to rebel against herself by further conforming to societal expectations, seeking to bury herself in the rigid structures of the FBI.

* * *

><p>Clarice smothered her sobs in the pillow and hoped it would be enough to keep from waking her host, as she couldn't seem to stop them entirely. He had more than enough levers with which to manipulate her emotions already; she'd be damned if she'd hand him another.<p>

What had she been thinking? She hadn't even tried to talk those kids down. She'd just acted. Violently. Was that who she was without the badge? Was that who she was _with_ the badge? Maybe the doctor was wrong; maybe she _did_ need the black and white world of the FBI, if only to stop her from going too far.

What would she have done if he hadn't chased them off?

_I'm a killer. Like him. Only he has self-control, and I have… rage. Fear. No idea what I'm doing._

_I shouldn't have come here._

He wanted her to cut her ties to the FBI, to give up on the notion that justice could be found in an institution. To accept that she could make those decisions for herself, find her own boundaries and declare them right and wrong. Wasn't that what he'd been pushing her toward, all those months as she sat and talked with him? And she'd started to believe it, too, and here was the result.

She would have to be careful not to let it happen again, and that meant being careful in her thoughts about the doctor. The fanciful ideas in her head, the ones that suggested they had a future together, those would have to go.

She could have this week, she decided. This one week of what-might-have-been, and then she would go back to her rule-bound job and her narrow little life and be damned happy for it.

_But you won't be. You won't be happy in the FBI anymore, and you won't be happy without him. You've already grown too much for that. _

She climbed out of bed and headed for the shower, where she could at least pretend that the renewed tears on her face were no more than water.


	15. Chapter 15

"Have you any thoughts for today, Clarice?"

He pushed a glass of orange juice toward her. She had come downstairs a few minutes before and seated herself at the island. Her smile was… brittle, he thought. Determined._ Desperate to keep up appearances, are we, Clarice?_

"I was thinking a hot air balloon ride would be nice."

She was challenging him, a playful feint, a deliberately lighthearted tone; a pained flicker in her laughing eyes betrayed her.

_An excellent facsimile, Clarice. Had I not heard your unquiet rest, it would have been an easy matter to overlook the depth of your upset. _

She was unsure yet, or she had arrived at some unpleasant conclusion. Neither outcome boded well for their fledgling relationship.

_Very well, my dear. I'll play along for now, hmm? But we will revisit this topic. _

"Certainly, Clarice. That's easily arranged." He returned his attention to the omelet ingredients he had prepared while she showered. The small sauté pan was properly heated; he poured in half of the egg mixture. "Perhaps a picnic lunch at the landing site would suit."

"Doctor…."

Uncommonly hesitant, he thought. Something in his answer had made her uncomfortable, perhaps, or some holdover from her nightmares.

"Yes, my dear?"

He tilted the pan, lifting the edge of the omelet and allowing the uncooked egg to flow underneath. It would be ready for the Gruyere, ham, green peppers and mushrooms soon.

"You don't have to try so hard, you know."

No, he needn't try at all, he supposed; however, he had long since come to accept that he _wished_ to do so. He would not give her up.

"Have you grown bored with me so soon, Clarice?"

"No, not at all! I just…."

He waited, patiently. She was rarely shy about voicing her conclusions once she had reached them – and he much preferred that she articulate such things herself rather than allow him to dictate to her. Silent acceptance went against her nature and reinforced her misguided faith in authority.

"I don't want to get accustomed to it, is all. I'll be going home in a few days" – there, the subject neither of them had dared broach – "and even if I weren't, every day wouldn't be like these have been."

He slid the finished omelet onto a plate and presented it to her, leaning just slightly into her personal space from across the island.

"No, they wouldn't all be such – I'm certain we would find other pursuits as well, other mutually pleasurable activities." He held her gaze, pleased when she declined to look away at the implication despite her soft blush. "But do not be so quick to assume a life together would look substantially different, Clarice.

"You believe I am attempting to… _impress_ you in some way." He reflected, for a moment, on the suitability of the word – in the popular, positive sense of attempting to gain favorable interest; in the less-used, more neutral sense of leaving one's mark; in the archaic, more negative sense of being enlisted in service by force. "I admit, I of course wish to show myself to be a suitable companion, but the attention I pay you is no more consideration than you deserve.

"_That_ will not change, Clarice, no matter how many or how few the days we number in each other's company."

* * *

><p>Clarice vowed to keep her hands to herself for the rest of the day. The doctor's unexpected admission at breakfast had nearly shaken her newfound resolve. He, too, had been thinking about something more long-term. Something more like love.<p>

_Not shaken, just wobbled. A little wobble, that's all._

But she was determined to begin weaning herself away from this need for him. She'd gotten through the first twenty-five years of her life without him; the last two and a half were merely an aberration. She'd be able to forget them eventually—

_Stop lying to yourself._

_Why, because he wouldn't like it?_

_Because it won't work._

Well that was just ridiculous. She was Clarice Starling; with enough determination, she could make anything work. True, she was currently making it work by neither looking at him nor conversing with him, but she had the excuse of the lovely scenery passing by the car window.

He hadn't yet said where they were going, but she'd been ordered to dress casually and wear boots – and when she'd come back down the stairs in jeans and a T-shirt, she'd been rather astonished to find him dressed in jeans and a button-down. She would have laid odds on him not even _owning_ a pair of jeans, let alone wearing them so well.

_Shit. Focus on the scenery, Clarice. _

_You're missing some spectacular scenery in the seat to your left._

_Outside the car. The scenery outside the car._

_Uh-huh. Right. What was I just saying about this plan not working?_

_It can work. It has to._

* * *

><p>His Starling was quite conflicted today, it seemed. She flitted about anxiously, her body never entirely at rest. Tapping toes, fingers rubbing on denim, head shifting from view to view – but never landing on him, he noted.<p>

His plans for the day would keep them out of the city, a change of scenery he believed would do her good, but the car ride – a lengthy bit of time sharing an enclosed space with him – might have been too much for her overtaxed senses. She had had an emotional night; left entirely to her own devices, she might succeed in resealing the cracks in the layers of armor he had spent so many months painstakingly slipping beneath.

It was obvious that she was making the attempt, at least.

He turned the car smoothly into the drive, a gently curved path of packed earth. A handful of horses grazed in the pasture to his left; it was possible that Clarice glanced at him now for the first time since she had entered the car, if only to spy the animals past him.

When he pulled in beside the stables and parked, she exited the car without waiting for him. He doubted it was simply excitement over his choice of outing for them; no, it was a rejection of his attention as a gentleman. The slight burned.

He stepped out and crossed to where she stood at the fence rail.

"So eager to escape me, Clarice?"

Well. She didn't attempt to hide her wince, at least. His tone had, perhaps, been less than kind.

"Yes… and no."

"I see."

And he did; he had known the conflicting impulses within her would likely cause myriad swings in mood, attitude, and behavior – but knowing it intellectually and being on the receiving end of it emotionally were two separate experiences. She carried the singular distinction of being able to affect him emotionally. Coping with his own emotional balance while simultaneously attempting to stay intellectually ahead of hers was a rare challenge.

"Conveniently, you'll have some space while we ride, Clarice. Perhaps you'll be able to determine just how far away you'd like to be, hmm?"

He left her at the edge of the corral and went to meet their host, who had stepped out of the stables at the sound of the engine and waited now to greet him.

It was the business of a few moments to confirm their arrangements and have the horses saddled and brought out to them. The lovely pair of blue roan geldings, their black legs and heads standing out from their silvered bodies, waited patiently.

The doctor concluded his conversation with the stablemaster, who helpfully suggested a variety of trails crossing the fields and forests on the property, to find Clarice standing eye to eye with one of the geldings, one hand on the bridle and one on its cheek, gently blowing air into its nose.

He took his time approaching her, not wishing to disturb the peaceful moment.

The gelding bumped her nose lightly, and she smiled. The smile held as she turned her head a bit to acknowledge him.

"We ready to go?"

"We have all the time in the world, Clarice." His voice was pitched for her ears only. "If you wish to stand in the yard and do nothing more than exchange greetings with this fine fellow, so be it. He seems content enough to enjoy such affections, hmm? The choice is yours."

Her inhalation was sharp, and she held it for a long moment before releasing it slowly. He could feel her eyes studying him, though she still had not fully turned her head. She recognized, certainly, that his own words had carried more meaning than they suggested on the surface. Perhaps she needed the time to compose a suitably meaningful response – particularly if she had not yet decided what meaning she wished to convey.

"I'd rather get to know him better – and I can hardly do that if I don't put him through his paces and turn him loose."

She stepped around to the gelding's left side, her hand trailing along its neck. The doctor thought to assist her in mounting, but she had smoothly swung into the saddle before he could even make the offer. Perhaps his neutral expression had slipped for a moment at this additional slight, as she tilted her head and looked down at him with curious amusement from her elevated perch.

"Horses, Doctor. Sheep and horses. I can ride, you know."

He nodded at the reference to her cousin's ranch and moved to mount his own horse.

"I expected no less, my dear."

They set off at an easy walk. Clarice, he noted, seemed to prefer wandering a bit rather than riding directly beside him or following. Her range seemed to extend to perhaps thirty feet or so. He supposed he ought to be gratified that she had not simply ridden off at the outset.

The pasture behind the stable climbed a gentle rise and deposited them on a trail through a well-tended forest with evidence of coppicing, thin shoots periodically rising straight and tall from wide stumps. They rode silently, single file, in the shifting sunshine beneath the green canopy.

Clarice slid past him, nearly grazing his right leg, as the trail began to widen out into a meadow. He watched the flexion in her muscles as she leaned forward and pressed her knee into the gelding's side; it responded swiftly to her command as she urged it into a canter.

She was a competent rider, lovely even, handling the horse with confidence – but the terrain was unfamiliar, and he would not have a misstep send her tumbling. He urged his own gelding to greater speed, preferring not to shout rudely across the field and divide her attention.

Her horse swung in a wide arc as they approached the far trees, cutting left along the edge; the doctor adjusted his own direction to intercept her. But it was not to be. A flicker of motion, and his horse was gathering itself on its haunches with startling suddenness.

The doctor shifted his weight forward; pulling back would only unbalance his mount and create a more dangerous situation. The gelding's forelegs had left the ground. The doctor kicked his feet free of the stirrups and dropped the reins. His mount was nearly vertical now; he pressed his hands firmly against its neck and thrust himself away, vaulting from its back before it could dump him off.

He rolled into a crouch well away from the still-rearing horse; a flash of movement in the grass found his Harpy falling into his right hand even as his left reached out to grasp whatever creature they had disturbed. A snake or small mammal, perhaps.

Ah, yes. His hand had closed about the neck of a rabbit. He lifted it to eye level; the animal had gone still with fear.

"Are you going to kill it?"

The doctor turned his head to the left. Clarice had calmed the horses; they were trained to stand, and did so, as she came over to where he knelt in the grass.

She dropped to her knees beside him, her breathing slightly rushed. _Concern, Clarice? For me or the rabbit?_

"Many dishes make use of rabbit, Clarice. It pairs well with a sweet, alcoholic sauce – an apple or pear brandy base, perhaps."

"I'm a country girl, Doctor; I've had rabbit before. It's not the most filling meal."

"No, no it isn't." He felt a chill despite the heat of the afternoon sun on his back. He would not be dining on rabbit, not by choice. "But to answer your question, Clarice, no, I am not going to kill it, though it might have killed me, if you wish otherwise."

Her fingers reached out and brushed the soft fur on the animal's head, ending with the lightest touch of his hand where he gripped the back of its neck.

"Let it run free, Doctor."

He set the rabbit aside and released his grip. The Harpy disappeared back into his sleeve. The rabbit quivered in the grass. Clarice rose to her feet and offered him her hand.


	16. Chapter 16

_Well, that was a complete failure._

_I told you it would be, didn't I? _

Unsettled by her inability to stick to the plan for even a single day, Clarice twisted in her seat as the doctor guided the car smoothly home.

"Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes, Clarice?" He turned his attention briefly from the road ahead to acknowledge her.

"Do you ever hear voices in your head?"

She had surprised him, if his blink was meaningful and not merely a physiological twitch.

"I've not previously been accused of experiencing the auditory hallucinations that so often accompany schizophrenia, Clarice, no. Though you, my dear, are at the peak time for onset. Were you seeking a professional consultation?"

She laughed.

"I wasn't, but maybe I need one."

"My skills are at your service, of course. I confess, I had not considered re-entering psychiatry as a mobile practice. Is the chair comfortable, Clarice? I'm afraid I cannot offer you tea today, as it is difficult to brew and pour while one is driving."

"I'm sure you could manage, Doctor, if you put your mind to it." No, now she was getting distracted again, letting his banter relax her and pull her away from the real question. "But I'm not really worried about the tea or the chair – not even the voices, exactly."

"Am I to guess at your true query, then?"

"I think I can manage to articulate my own thoughts, Doctor, unless you're simply dying to demonstrate the parlor trick where you pluck them from my mind."

"Ah, I've been reduced to parlor tricks, have I? Has familiarity finally bred contempt, Clarice?"

"Comfort, not contempt, Doctor."

She paused to order her thoughts. What was it that she really wanted to know?

"You don't… doubt yourself." She watched him smoothly shift the car into a turn, maneuvering with – what else? – elegance and precision. No hesitation, no wasted movement.

"In the main, no, Clarice." His gaze flicked to hers before returning to the road ahead. "When you are in the field, Clarice, do you routinely stop to question your instincts or do you accept their conclusions and proceed on that basis?"

She recalled the run through the warehouse on the ill-fated raid that left her colleagues dead on the concrete floor. Her body had aimed and fired without interference from her mind; she had grabbed John's gun to defend herself even as he fell against her.

"No. I act. There's no time—"

"Precisely. You act. As you did last night with those incompetent young criminals, hmm?"

She refused to flinch, though she still wondered what she might have done had the doctor not intervened. The idea that she was the predator and he the conscience in their relationship was… terrifying.

"And afterwards, you review and regret."

She nodded, unsurprised that he had recognized her uneasiness and cut to the truth of the matter.

"I do not."

Clarice considered what that might mean; her conclusion roiled her stomach with a mixture both disturbing and appealing. He was without conflict, without remorse, which allowed him to function as he did… but he was also without respite. As she was – but it was regret, not alertness, that drove her.

"So you're always in the moment – alert for danger – at war, hunted and driven… even when you seem calm and relaxed. Like… like a hawk. Seemingly at rest, perched up high, vigilant in case the mouse decides to run."

He seemed pleased with her understanding, humming softly.

"And once you've made a decision, there's no turning back on it?"

It wasn't mere curiosity that prompted the question. It wasn't even that she wondered if such uncompromising thinking was a possibility for her as well.

No, she admitted, this was a personal question – an intimately personal question – because if he had decided that she was what he wanted, then maybe… maybe… he would never stop trying to court her. Would never abandon her. She wondered what he would think to know that she thought of it in those terms – not a threat, not an undesirable pursuit, not something she must escape, but a comfort. Something that eased the loneliness in her.

"Only as circumstances dictate. How fortunate for you, my dear, that you are not a mouse."

_Sonovabitch. Too perceptive by half, Doctor._

"You're damned right I'm not."

He turned his face from the road and smiled at her then, showing a hint of teeth.

"How fortunate for me, as well."

* * *

><p>The day had started out less than promising, and the agitation he had sensed in her had not yet diminished. She had been quiet at dinner. Not impolite, no, but not fully present either.<p>

And now they stood together at the sink – for she had, once again, insisted upon washing the dinner dishes with him – but there were no bumping elbows. A slight distance still remained.

"You told me once that I would never get into Behavioral Science."

Ah. So they were going to discuss it now. He had hoped... but no, she needed his assistance in this. Not that she was incapable; no, never that. Unwilling, perhaps. Ever hopeful. Was it too much to ask that her hopes be directed elsewhere, that she not have to lose the earnest optimism that so charmed him, before she learned this lesson?

"I wrote words to that effect, Clarice, yes." It had been a pointed jab at Uncle Jack, of course, but that made it no less true.

She took the newly rinsed serving plate from his hand for drying. He allowed the water to drain from the basin; no more dishes awaited them.

"Did you mean it?" Only a hint of vulnerability fluttered in her voice.

"I did." He would not soften the blow, even for her. _She would not thank me for it, and it would only make things more difficult for her in the end._

"Why? What am I doing wrong?"

She turned and gazed at him with frustration writ across her features, troubled eyes yearning to understand something she undoubtedly already knew but refused to accept.

"Tell me, Clarice, what work has the Bureau had you pursuing?" He dried his hands briskly on a second towel, as she still clutched her own, though the now-dry plate rested safely on the countertop.

Her head shifted a fraction; her eyes grew distant as she refocused her thoughts.

"A little bit of everything, Doctor. The first two years are supposed to be about learning the ropes, getting a handle on a variety of skills. I've done grunt work, surveillance, tech rotations, warrant squads, interrogations, notifications..."

He held up a hand to pause her recounting.

"And in each of these assignments, Clarice, did you ever give less than your best?"

She drew back, her expression clearly conveying the answer he expected: such a thing would never occur to his Starling.

"Of course not, Doctor. I can't measure myself by the value of the job they've given me to do, only by the job I do handling it."

"And if they told you to sort paperclips, you would be the best paperclip sorter in the Bureau, Clarice?" His tone, his smile, carried just a touch of condescension within their amusement, a deliberate goad.

"You're damned right I would, Doctor." She tossed the towel on the counter and stalked toward the front room. "I'd implement a new, more efficient sorting schedule to get it done in half the time, too."

"Alone, Clarice?" He watched her move. Even in her upset, her steps remained fluid, the power coiled in her muscles bleeding off of her and striking him like vibrations against his skin. She was raw energy, a bolt of lightning. Would that he were Zeus, to contain her wild fury in the palms of his hands as she danced.

"Sure, why not?"

"Do you often work alone, Clarice?"

He hung the towels properly before following her out of the kitchen.

"I guess so, yeah. I mean, we're assigned to senior agents in teams, but I usually end up working on part of an assignment myself."

"You prefer it that way, do you not?"

She hesitated, perhaps sensing the knowledge she did not wish to face. He seated himself on the sofa so as to present less of a threat or distraction. _I'm merely furniture here, Clarice. Speak your mind. Let your own answers come to you._

"It's easier. I get more done."

"Because you needn't spend your time explaining or justifying your actions to others."

"I guess so."

"No, you do not _guess_. You know or you do not. Which is it, Clarice?"

"Fine, I _know_. Working with other people is exhausting. They interrupt with questions all the time, and they leave tasks half-finished, and they employ shoddy logic - and it _matters_, Doctor." Her voice grew louder as she turned to face him, her pacing at a halt, though she vibrated with emotion still. "People's lives depend upon the validity of the work, on the rigor of the inquiry. A mistake can mean that someone dies when they didn't have to. It can mean-"

Her breath hitched. Her eyes stared past him into nothingness; her lips trembled.

He rose from his seat, his movements slow and deliberate. His voice coaxed her with its deep, soft rumble.

"What can it mean, Clarice?"

Shaky breaths. A convulsive swallow. The slightest shake of her head. No, she did not want to face this truth.

"Tell me." Still deep and quiet, but with the sharp edge of steel. She would not be permitted to step back, to go around, to slide into numbness or run as she had done before.

"It... it can mean... letting two punks get the drop on you. Leaving... leaving someone-"

She needed a push; very well, he would provide it.

"Leaving _whom_, Clarice?"

A single harsh breath. Her eyes remained focused in distant memory.

"Me. Leaving _me _all alone."

"Yes. You demand perfection, Clarice, from yourself and those around you, because you have felt the cost of a single mistake. You blame your father for leaving you - a difficult admission for you, yes, I know - and it angers you to see others repeating his mistake. The FBI is full of small minds and 'team players,' as they say, Clarice. That is not you. That will never be you. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

The shine in her eyes spilled over as she blinked, silent tears sliding down her cheeks.

"I understand, Doctor. I don't... I don't _fit_." Her head hung down. "There's nowhere for me... I don't fit."

It was a matter of two steps to reach her. His arms closed around her; one hand tucked her face against his neck. Her tears dripped onto his skin, a sensation he expected to find irritating and unpleasant. It was neither. Perhaps his objective thought process had been compromised by her presence. A concern? One to consider with more depth later, he sensed.

"You do not fit _there_, Clarice." He paused a moment, but he could not repay her bravery with cowardice; he pressed on, his arms tensing to hold her close. "I find you fit quite perfectly _here_."


	17. Chapter 17

If Clarice Starling had dreamed, she woke without memory of it. She felt well-rested, peaceful; if a single thought scratched the surface of that calm, rising from the depths, it was merely this: Where were the arms that had held her so tightly? Didn't they also belong here, in her bed?

But the thought was so fleeting, belonging to the hazy moments between sleep and waking, that it slipped past without conscious comment. The sense of peace, however, stayed with her through the breakfast she shared with the doctor and afterward as they continued their exploration of the city on foot, visiting some of the sites they had not managed to fit in Monday.

She strolled comfortably at his side, her arm linked with his. Conversation was light, prompted by her expressions of inquiry and his commentary on various points of interest. They might have been any couple, anonymous tourists enjoying a bright summer day.

He raised an eyebrow at her lunch choice – a cheeseburger and fries – and declined to sample it, amusement plain on his face, as the café they had chosen was equally capable of providing him with an acceptably rare tenderloin filet with a side of red potatoes and summer vegetables. She speared the occasional veggie from his plate with her fork – to balance out the lack of vegetables in her own, of course, and no other reason – and he allowed it without comment.

Mischief, it seemed, was not rudeness – at least, not when it came from her. Indeed, the gleam in his eyes might have been calculated to spur her on, she thought.

The Saarland Museum's Modern Gallery was their first post-lunch destination, allowing for a pleasant walk along the river past the concert hall they had visited on her first night. They took their time in the halls, studying the works as they chose, and Clarice relished the lack of urgency in their pace.

There was hardly a need to rush, was there? Not when the doctor stood so obligingly near, a half-step behind, such that his hand might rise to trace the line of her shoulder blade and his voice might drop softly in her ear.

The art – primarily German expressionism – was interesting, she thought, but the brief biographies of the artists and the history of their works struck her as well.

"So much persecution," she murmured.

"War desires to stamp out ideas and culture as much as people, Clarice. It is the death of hope – the command for all to stand as dumbly in the pen as your lambs when the time for slaughter comes."

Stung by the reminder after the pleasant calmness of the morning and her open vulnerability the night before, she stepped out of his near-embrace to turn and respond with bitter speed.

"Surely not you, though, Doctor. You would never be so stupidly helpless, so utterly unable to act, would you? You would never let your lamb be led to slaughter except by choice. Except because it benefited _you_."

His hand twitched as though he warred with himself. The hand in which a knife had appeared with startling speed yesterday. Had she offended him? Well, she was no rabbit.

The silence was lengthy. He had abandoned her to chase some thought, no doubt, and she had had enough. Her jab could hardly have been more pointed than his; the lambs meant nothing to _him_. She stalked toward the next exhibit. He could damn well catch up whenever he liked.

But his hand caught her arm before she could get far, his fingers squeezing with uncomfortable pressure.

"I will excuse your tone and your words, Clarice, on the basis of your ignorance. But you will at least do me the courtesy of waiting for my response."

"Or what, Doctor?"

"My patience is not boundless, Clarice, even for you."

"Because I'm a game to you, aren't I? Like Will Graham was. Turning the FBI agent against the FBI. The irony appealed to you."

She winced, more at the thought than the pain in her upper arm, though the doctor seemed finally to notice the latter. His hand released her instantly, his eyes once again distant; he recovered more quickly this time.

"Will lacks your strength, Clarice." The menace – the restrained threat – she had sensed in his voice was gone. "Or did, when last I saw him. I doubt he's gained it since then. He allows his fear to rule him."

"So that's all it was – a game?" The thought sickened her, angered her, muddled her thinking. Had she misjudged him so badly?

"You and I, Clarice, we've not flinched from the truth between us even when it cuts us, hmm? Yes, you were a game; no, that is not all you were." He was entirely calm now, damn him, seemingly unbuffeted by the winds of emotion that shook her. "Your potential was obvious, even so early as Memphis; whether you would allow me to help you reach it was another matter entirely."

"I was… a study. A project."

In Jack Crawford's office, her own visits to the doctor had been dubbed the Lecter Project; was there a similar file in the doctor's mind labeled the Starling Project? His voice whispered to her from memory: _You cannot reduce me to a set of influences._ Was that what he was doing to her?

The anger rose in her, and she struggled to tamp it down; he knew how to trigger it in her, knew how it divided her focus, and she wasn't falling for it. _Not this time, Doctor._ The winds slowed until emotion was little more than a gentle breeze and the investigator in her, the analyst, held its leash in a tight fist.

"Not merely that, Clarice."

She searched herself, probing for what more there could be, what she was missing in the scenario. A thought arose. She forced her hesitation aside to voice it.

"If the hurricane hadn't brought with it the opportunity for escape, Doctor, what was your endgame?"

He inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"I think you know, Clarice."

"You would have used me. I would have been a tool in your escape." She laughed, though there was little happiness in it. "You must have been really pleased every time I demonstrated some new level of _trust_ in you. Was I an idiot to think there was more to it?"

"Never that, Clarice," he murmured, though his eyes were wary as he watched her. "I did not know… not at the beginning… how much you would come to mean."

"Enough that you would have destroyed my career and left me looking like a fool – no, not just looking like – _being_ a complete fool? Or were you just going to leave my mutilated body for Jack Crawford, a little one-up on your gifts to Will Graham?"

"I would have taken you with me, Clarice. _I would not have left you behind._"

The fierce intensity on his face was something she had not seen from him before; the edge in his voice seemed a desperate anger. Frustration, maybe, at her stubbornness.

"I could not fail to take advantage of the opportunity the storm provided me, no, but the timing, _the timing_, Clarice, was less than optimum. I had planned for a longer game, for the chance to let you come to these conclusions in your own time. And you would have; is it not self-evident, as you voice them now?"

They stood mere inches apart, and yet he did not touch her. He had been touching her for days, but now, when he might have expected his touch to influence her judgment in his favor, he withheld it. She considered that along with the emotion in his voice even as her mind processed his words. His burning stare did not waver in the minutes of silence.

In the end, the conclusion was inescapable.

"Not a pawn. You weren't looking for another pawn." Why was it so difficult to force the air into her lungs, the words past her lips? "You wanted – want – a partner."

"A queen," he clarified, as a true smile emerged. "Brava, Clarice."


	18. Chapter 18

She lay sprawled atop him on the couch, her head turned toward the stereo. Her weight was a pleasant accompaniment to his thoughts. He had initially focused on the potential difficulties – how he might immobilize her, how he might break free should she attempt to confine him – but such considerations had no place here.

The day had been a difficult one. He had lost himself for a moment – no, more than a moment; he would not lie to himself – when her pique had unwittingly opened the yawning chasm of pain within him. His worst memory of childhood. Mischa's tiny hand slipping from his grasp, the barn door slamming.

For all her predatory instincts, Clarice Starling had a kind and noble heart; she would not knowingly have pierced him so deeply. He would tell her someday, all of it, sparing nothing of his failure. She would see, then, how alike they truly were. But the wounded memory was still tender, even hours later, as he suspected her arm was also where he had gripped her.

No, he would not be sharing that memory tonight. For now, he would take solace in her deeper understanding of her own importance to him and her willingness to remain in his presence despite the physical nature of their altercation. Her position now demonstrated trust; her relaxed state indicated that it was not a forced behavior, not a deliberate but uncomfortable attempt to show her acceptance.

He pushed the contingencies to the back of his mind and simply allowed himself to feel. It was a novel experience indeed. She warmed him, where her body made contact with his own – and there were, he admitted, very few places in which her body did not currently make contact with his own.

Her hair brushed against the bare skin of his neck. Her forehead pressed lightly against his chin; he might, were he so inclined, turn and press a kiss to her brow. Her breath flowed across his collar, the rise and fall of her chest pushing gently against his own. One hand lay there as well; her thumb at times moved in rhythm with the music, rubbing against the fabric of his shirt.

Her hips lay off-center from his own, shifted to her left; he could feel the imbalance, the added weight centered over his right side, the slight absence of it on his left. The temperature difference was notable; his uncovered left hip felt chilled by comparison to the warmth where she touched him. It was, of course, better for all concerned. Already he had set a low-level loop in his thoughts to remind himself that desire must not be allowed to run unchecked. But then she would shift, or her bare foot would slide against his slacks, and he would be forced to remind himself once more.

He had encountered no shortage of beautiful women in the nine months since his departure from the asylum. Seducing one would have been child's play, the work of but a few moments. He could not deny his desire for consummation after being so long denied. But desire wore the face of Clarice Starling, and no substitute would be acceptable.

"What was the name of this piece?"

He roused himself from his pleasant, contented state to attend to her question.

"The _Goldberg Variations_, my dear. Bach's masterpiece in the elegant hands of Glenn Gould."

"Oh, I've h–"

Her body stiffened then, and he knew in an instant where her thoughts had gone.

"Ah. They noted it in my file, did they, Clarice?"

"They noted everything, Doctor."

In a different place and time, he considered, he would have been amused by the anger in her tone. But if their restful evening was at an end – and knowing her as he did, he could hardly see how it could not be – well, he might as well make an object lesson out of it.

She attempted to rise, then, her hand pressing against his chest. It was a perverse pleasure to deny her, to press his own hand firmly against her back.

"Leaving so soon, my dear?"

Her hand paused.

"Let me up, Doctor."

"You know what I am, Clarice. Will you not cuddle with the monster? Whom did you imagine held you but a moment ago?"

"Stop it! I don't want to play this game right now, Doctor."

"Mmm. And if I do, Clarice? How then will you stop me?"

She struggled against him, and he rolled to press her against the back of the couch, her arms wedged between them, his weight trapping her legs. His Harpy dropped into his palm almost without conscious thought. Warmed by his skin, the naked blade stroked her throat.

Now she no longer struggled – though neither did she flinch away. And her eyes, her eyes burned with anger, not fear.

"You're trying to show me that you're a killer, a monster. That you're without mercy. I know those things, Doctor."

"Yes, but you shove them aside when it's convenient, don't you, Clarice? And then they haunt you at the most _inconvenient_ times."

She flushed at his low tone, and he knew she recalled very well when they had lain on this same couch three nights past – and what they had been doing when her doubts doused her passion.

"You would have killed those guards in Memphis if everything had gone according to plan."

"Yes."

"You would have killed whoever got between you and the courthouse exit."

"Most likely, yes."

"I _know_ these things, Doctor." She pressed forward. Had he laid the edge rather than the flat of the blade against her throat, she would even now be bleeding. "Whatever game you're playing right now, whatever lesson you're trying to teach me, _I already know it_. So get that damned knife away from my throat and let me up."

She knew, yes, but part of her could not accept – and it was that last corner of resistance that put barriers between them still, even here, beyond the glass and bars that had for so long set them apart. Perhaps because accepting what he was meant also accepting herself for what she was… accepting the predatory intuition and instincts within her that she believed would so disappoint the dead night watchman.

But here, now, he had her… _cornered_. _What better time for confrontation, hmm?_ He shifted his weight, pressing her more deeply into the couch, prepared for a violently angry response to his next goad. It wouldn't do to accidentally cut her when he was attempting so earnestly to help her… and himself, of course.

"I hold the knife, yes, but you have not been harmed. Perhaps, instead, we ought to see what happens when the knife is in _your_ hand, Clarice."

But the angry response he expected never came. She lay frozen beneath him, her scent suddenly full of fear, her face so pale he almost believed he had indeed cut her and her blood had run out and covered the couch, the couch white like snow, stained now so red, so deeply red–

He abruptly closed the knife and stood, blinking the image away. Clarice moved only to take a deep, gulping breath. Her eyes fixed on his chest. A tremor ran through her. When she spoke, the rawness in her voice rasped against his skin.

"Never. I don't ever want the knife in my hands."

She rose a little too carefully, a little too slowly, as though every movement were choreographed in an intricate underwater ballet, and walked past him and up the stairs without another word.

He let her go. What else could he do? He had hit deeper than he knew. What scenarios must her mind have conjured for the specter of a knife in her hand to terrify her so? It seemed she feared he was not safe from her – and after his own… lapse… a moment ago, a confrontation that had escalated perhaps in part because of his own lingering upset from her painful words this afternoon, the thinnest thread of thought spun into his mind: perhaps she was not safe from him, either.


	19. Chapter 19

"Press firmly, here. Cut cleanly. See how the layers slide away from the blade?"

The doctor's right hand engulfed her own on the handle. His skin was warm and dry against hers. Calm. Practiced.

His left hand caressed her shoulder; he pressed his lips lightly to her neck.

"You're doing quite well, my dear." His head lifted slightly beside hers. "Wouldn't you agree, Jack?"

It was impossible to tell if Jack Crawford agreed, as the gag prevented him from speaking clearly and he was rather occupied with screaming just then in any case. Clarice slipped her hands into the opening she had made and lifted his liver free.

"Like this?"

"Just so."

Her transition to waking came abruptly.

Clarice rolled on her side as her stomach clenched. Slow, shallow breaths kept dinner where it belonged while she pulled her knees to her chest.

For years, her dreams had been filled with past failures and regrets. Now, it seemed, her thoughts looked to the opposite direction, to the unknowable future, and found nothing but fear – fear of what she would be without the well-ordered, black-and-white world of the FBI.

_You already know that world isn't so black and white. Isn't that part of why you're so angry with Jack Crawford?_

She tugged the blanket up and burrowed her face into the pillow, one ear attuned to the soft music – _wait, music? Where is that –_

Clarice swung her legs out of bed. Her fingers still clutched the blanket around her shoulders, the ends dragging after her as she followed the sound to its source. The door to the music room stood slightly ajar; a thin line of light spilled into the hall.

From inside… Tchaikovsky. The piano wept for Odette and her prince. Had it really been less than a year since she had stood outside his cell and played the same piece for him?

She pushed the door open with tentative fingers. After the way they had left things, she wasn't sure what to expect. Courtesy, of course, but her presence might be unwelcome now.

His hands paused over the keys as she entered.

"Is there something you need, Clarice? Did I wake you?"

"No." The word came out a mere whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. "No, I… please don't stop."

He hadn't turned to face her, and he did not do so now. But his hands flowed across the keys once more at her bidding.

She moved to the loveseat near the window and settled in, tucking her feet beneath her and pulling the blanket around her. She sank down until her head lay at the perfect angle to watch his hands and glimpse his face in profile as he played.

Elegant really was the word for him, she thought. Even in her nightmares.

* * *

><p>He could not spend another night standing here in the hall listening to her pain. Nor could he enter. The room was hers; he must keep the distinction firmly fixed in his mind lest he overstep. Restraint had already proven difficult; he would not have her believe he could not control himself.<p>

No, he could not go in. But perhaps… perhaps he could coax her out, if he could not soothe her back to restful sleep.

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead briefly to her door, and moved silently down the hall to the music room.

He had been playing for less than an hour when he sensed the change, as though the house itself held its breath. And then the shift in the air touched his back as the door swung further open. He felt her eyes upon him.

_Gently, now._

His hands hovered just above the keys. He queried her in a neutral tone. If she suspected the music had been solely for her benefit, she might retreat into shame and anger. Or fear. The fear was worse. It hung about her unnaturally, holding her back from the life she deserved – a life, he privately admitted, that he hoped would be with him.

The room swallowed the sound of her small plea. He resumed playing, aware of her regard. Even after she had dropped off to sleep once more, he continued to play, for himself as much as her. When finally he laid the cover over the keys, it was merely to move to the chair near where she lay curled on the settee. He leaned back and watched her through heavy-lidded eyes.

He dozed lightly, ready to wake in an instant should she grow restless, but the music had fulfilled its purpose admirably, soothing them both, quieting the ghosts and demons that disturbed their dreams.

* * *

><p>Dr. Lecter was wearing pajamas.<p>

Standing in the kitchen, wearing navy blue pajamas with a matching robe belted around his waist, fabric with a hint of shine that slid over him like silk as he moved.

It was the very same thing he had been wearing last night in the music room, she realized, though the sight had not registered until now. And she – Jesus, she was still dressed in a nightshirt with a damn blanket wrapped around her like a child. Why had she come downstairs without stopping to shower and dress?

_Better question – why did he?_

She stepped off the final stair and crossed the living room toward him.

"Good morning, Clarice." He was stirring something with a whisk, his right arm constantly in motion. "I suppose I needn't ask how you slept, hmm?"

"Pretty well, actually, once I decided to attend a recital going on down the hall." She managed to keep the light, casual tone she wanted – and found, to her surprise, that she didn't feel nearly so much embarrassment as she had expected. "I'm afraid I committed the egregious sin of falling asleep during the performance, though. Not a great way to show my appreciation."

The doctor cracked an egg into the bowl and returned to whisking.

"Perhaps your untroubled sleep was all the applause the performer sought."

His tone seemed matter-of-fact, his motions steady, but….

"Did you sleep at all, Doctor?"

A pause, as he added vanilla and cinnamon to the bowl.

"I rested," he clarified.

"You kept playing after I fell asleep."

"For a time, yes."

"And then?"

He turned and poured the bowl's contents into a baking dish – something like a cake pan, she thought, but ceramic and deeper.

"And then I watched you sleep. The… opportunity… had not presented itself…."

Not since the night of the hurricane, she thought, when he surely had seen her sleeping form before he woke her. She considered the implications.

"Because I keep the bedroom door here closed when I sleep. And you won't… it would be like crashing without an invitation."

He tipped his head in acknowledgement.

"Am I so interesting when I sleep, then, Doctor?"

"You are never less than lovely, Clarice." He opened the oven door, slipped the pan inside, and closed it once more. "But you are rarely… peaceful. To catch you at rest is a sight worthy of stopping to admire."

"Mmm. Maybe someday I'll—" She stopped herself before the rest of the words could tumble out, but she couldn't stop the scenario playing out in her mind, the images of them lying beneath the same sheets, waking to find him sleeping peacefully beside her, brushing his mouth with a kiss, feeling the fluttering of his lashes against her cheek as he woke….

"Clarice?"

She bumped the counter as she jumped. He was watching her, eyebrow raised, possibly a hint of fond amusement in the upturned corner of his mouth.

"What? Sorry. What?"

"We have perhaps three-quarters of an hour before breakfast will be ready. If you'd care to shower and dress?"

She nodded.

"Right. Meet you back here in forty-five."

She escaped up the stairs with something like relief, the edges of the blanket trailing behind her like a bridal train.

* * *

><p>The baked French toast had been an excellent choice, the doctor was pleased to see, as Clarice seemed quite taken with it. The bread cubes had soaked up their flavor overnight; he had merely needed to top it off when she had first awoken and come downstairs, blanket endearingly trailing behind her.<p>

Such a state of dishabille had suggested a variety of actions to his conscious mind, none of which involved finishing breakfast, and all of which were summarily pushed aside. Passion had thus far led them only to disaster; patience was a far more effective strategy. He did not doubt her desire; no, she had amply demonstrated her interest. It was her penchant for guilt and regret that stilled him. To have her only to lose her because he had acted too soon – that was unacceptable.

Clarice lifted her glass to her lips and sipped the orange juice he had freshly squeezed after a brief detour of his own to wash and dress for the day. Her eyes met his over the rim of the glass. Her eyebrow lifted as she swallowed and set the glass down.

"Still enjoying the novelty of breakfast together, Doctor?"

"Always, my dear. I fear the novelty, as you say, is unlikely to wear off." Ever, he did not say; better, perhaps, that she believed he meant only because of the short duration of her stay. That was a subject he would need to broach now, difficult though it was.

"Should you choose to leave on schedule, Clarice, today will be our last full day together." Her fork stopped moving on the plate in front of her. "Is there anything in particular you wish to experience that we have not yet done?"

Silence greeted his question. A comfortable silence, at first; he perceived she was considering what to suggest, if anything. And then an idea came to her; the slight tension in her posture and widening of her eyes communicated such as clearly as if she had spoken the words.

When she eventually spoke, the increased presence of her native drawl indicated the depth of her desire just as the pauses revealed her uncertainty, her reluctance to ask.

"You've shown me… a lot, Doctor. Culture, history, the beauty of the countryside… but we haven't… maybe… maybe we could stay home today. Just… us. Together."

Her attitude and her scent reflected something more like wistfulness than arousal; she was not, it seemed, pushing for intimacy she could not handle. _At least, not in that form._

A request for emotional closeness, then, something she needed from him but could not quite articulate. Like himself, she was typically quite self-sufficient, without close friends and with no family to speak of. Together, though, they formed… something more. And her wording bespoke the importance she attached to this visit; she had not asked to stay _in_ or to stay _here_ for the day – no, she had asked to stay _home_. With him.

She had lost her mother even younger than he – were her memories of the time before the prized and treasured secrets of her heart? They neither of them had sufficient experience of a traditional home and upbringing; perhaps it was only natural that she sought to re-create the experience now.

But how best to indulge her desire for this form of comfort?

The kitchen was often the center of the home for the social class of her birth. He swiftly reviewed the week. Yes, she had shown reluctance to be shooed away from food preparation and a strong desire to spend that time interacting with him. Her behavior Sunday, her odd insistence upon washing the dishes together, became clearer within the new context of his deeper understanding.

_Not truly just a vacation even then, hmm? You've been thinking quite seriously about a lifetime arrangement, Clarice._

Perhaps there was more hope for the best possible outcome of this week than he had suspected.

The doctor instantly discarded his original plans for the day – a matinee performance of _Tristan und Isolde_ at the Staatstheater – and began planning a meal they could create together. Something comforting for her palate. Something reminiscent of childhood. Something with ingredients for which they would plausibly need to shop together this morning.

_You asked for domesticity when you arrived, Clarice; forgive me for not understanding your desire. But we shall rectify that oversight today, hmm?_


	20. Chapter 20

Clarice got the sense, as the doctor held open the door to another small shop, that he just didn't _do_ grocery stores. Already they had stopped at two places – first for fresh pasta, and then for herbs and mushrooms and some good-golly-are-you-kidding-me expensive truffle – and this new shop seemed filled with cheese. Just cheese. A whole store full of it.

It wasn't as though she'd been unaware of the existence of such places; she just hadn't expected to ever be standing in one. She let the doctor guide her to the counter; his right hand carried their purchases while his left lay lightly against her back. His fingers occasionally brushed over her spine in an affectionate caress. She was uncertain whether that was intentional; she admitted that a small voice in her mind hoped it wasn't, that it was an unconscious expression of the depth of his feeling – that stroking her back was a comforting, reflexive motion for him.

The shopkeeper behind the counter greeted the doctor warmly, she presumed; his smiling face seemed to suggest such, at least, though she understood nothing after "Ahh, Herr Clark, guten Morgen."

His lengthy spiel ended with a significant look at her; the doctor said something briefly in German before continuing in English.

"Of course, please allow me to present Frau Bell, a good friend. Caroline, this is Herr Schmidt, a quite capable purveyor of fine cheeses."

"So this is the lovely young lady benefiting from Herr Clark's excellent taste, which I see now extends far beyond cheese. It's a pleasure to meet you, Frau Bell."

As with the majority of the people she had encountered this week, the shopkeeper spoke crisp, clear English.

"And you as well, Herr Schmidt. I take it Thomas has been raiding your shelves rather frequently?"

The doctor's alias fell easily from her tongue. It didn't suit him, not really, but it had been a simple adjustment to make, given that she rarely thought of him as anything but "Doctor" in her own mind. It wasn't as though she'd been invited to address him by his given name, so she was unlikely to slip and call him Hannibal in any case. Which made it all the more fun to call him Thomas as though she had a right to, as though she'd been doing so for years.

"Indeed he has. No doubt you've had the good fortune to sample several varieties, as he must enjoy the good fortune of having such a beautiful companion. I wooed my own wife with cheese, you know. Well, cheese and wine – a good deal more of the latter, I must admit, though perhaps your Herr Clark doesn't require the fruit of the vine to pluck up his courage." He laughed. "The things a man in love will do often make little sense to any but the woman he pursues, eh, Frau Bell?"

A man in love? She shifted her head to look at the doctor, who was showing the mask she mentally named "Polite Smile 7."

"Sometimes not even to her, Herr Schmidt," she responded. "But there's something to be said for a little mystery."

"Indeed there is." The shopkeeper nodded to her politely and returned his attention to the doctor. "So, Herr Clark, what may I wrap up for such a clever and lucky fellow as yourself today?"

The doctor smoothly took up the prompt, rattling off cheeses and measurements; though he spoke in English, Clarice recognized little beyond sharp cheddar among the listed choices.

Herr Schmidt worked quickly, cutting pieces to size and wrapping them first in a waxy paper and then a brown paper before tying them with string. He was precise about his work, she noted, a quality the doctor likely appreciated. He seemed satisfied, at least, as he paid the bill and added the package to the bundle he carried.

"If you're ready to depart, my dear?" The doctor's hand brushed her shoulder and slipped down her back as though to draw her attention away from the case she was nominally perusing – a polite fiction she had engaged in for that exact purpose. He would know that, of course; he could hardly have missed the way her eyes briefly closed at the first touch of his fingertips. It didn't matter, though. If anything, her action would simply be confirmation that his… efforts… were welcome.

"Of course, Thomas. Lead on."

The cheese shop proved to be their final stop; the doctor led her home next. A joyful frisson rolled through her. They would be preparing a meal together today. And afterward, they had no plans save enjoying each other's company. A lazy day at home, just as she'd asked.

_See? If you ask for what you want, he'll give it to you. _

And she would do that, she was certain… as soon as she figured out how to stop fighting against what she wanted. Assuming, of course, that he was willing to wait that long.

The kitchen prep took little time at all under the doctor's direction; within a matter of moments they had a lineup of bowls, utensils, and ingredients, every item in place for the moment they needed it. The water for the pasta was the first step; it would take time to boil. They sliced mushrooms next; hers came out much more evenly cut than the poor vegetables she had chopped earlier in the week.

It helped that she wasn't so distracted now. They sautéed the mushroom slices while waiting for the water to boil, and then the doctor explained as he did something he called deglazing. The pasta went into the now-boiling water, the mushrooms were set aside, and the cheese took center stage.

"Tell me, Clarice, did you assist your mother in the kitchen when you were young?"

Yes, he had found her out. Her experiment in domesticity wasn't under wraps anymore. _He probably knew better than I did what I was asking for this morning. _

"I think I was more hindrance than help, but that's not really what you're asking, is it?" She tilted her head, but she couldn't catch a glimpse of his expression behind her without risking her fingers on the grater as she shredded the block of sharp cheddar. "My strongest memories of her are there, yeah."

"You can picture her there, can you not?"

"Her legs, mostly, moving around me from the stove to the sink when I played on the floor. Her hair tickling my face when she looked over my shoulder while I colored at the table."

"But you don't often cook."

"No. I'm not very good at it."

"You're capable of many things, Clarice. I find it difficult to credit your incompetence in the kitchen. You're doing fine now, my dear."

She shifted uneasily and felt the brush of his arms against hers. The feeling soothed her.

"I'm not lonely now," she whispered. The racing of her heart thrummed in her ears as she made the admission.

"Nor am I." She felt the press of his cheek briefly against her own. He continued in a brisker tone. "I believe that's enough cheddar, my dear. Let's check on the pasta, hmm?"

Clarice allowed him to steer her over to the stove, where the pasta was merrily bubbling in its salted bath. He managed it very smoothly, she thought – the subject change, not the cooking, though he made that effortless as well.

But if she wanted something more from this relationship, she needed to give voice to questions, even when they touched upon subjects he skillfully avoided.

_He gave me carte blanche Monday. He said I could ask._

The doctor turned off the heat, and they drained the water in the sink. Once the colander of pasta had been submerged in a new bath – this one of ice water – Clarice returned to the previous topic.

"Did you cook with your mother, Doctor?"

The pause was nearly imperceptible as he dropped butter in the waiting saucepan, but Clarice could see the hesitation in his hand in her peripheral vision. She turned her focus on the waiting cheeses, moving the bowls from the island to the counter.

"My mother did not often cook, but I recall her overseeing events in the kitchen on occasion. She planned the menus, and the staff carried them out."

_The staff?_

She wondered, then, both what his privileged childhood had been like and what had prompted his interest in haute cuisine, but she refused to be deterred from her true purpose. They would have time enough to talk about food later.

He swirled the saucepan and added a small amount of flour, whisking briefly before adding the fresh herbs they had purchased earlier.

"OK, so not the kitchen. Then where are your memories of her strongest?"

The piano, maybe? Had she taught her son to play herself? Clarice awaited his answer with eager anticipation.

But the pause this time was longer, more definite, and his tone, when finally he answered, was the carefully controlled evenness of a man imposing a calm he did not feel.

"This is, perhaps, not an appropriate topic at the present time. But I have given my word to answer your queries, Clarice, and I will do so now if you ask it of me."

She considered him, his face closed to her but for the smallest spark in his eyes – something like anguish, she thought. She had meant only to ask about happy times, but maybe the strongest memories he had of his mother surrounded something unpleasant. Her mind flashed back to the asylum, to the metallic voice that had calmly asked for her worst memory of childhood. Stabbing at his was not her intent.

She brushed her hand over his arm and slid the bowls of cheese and the measured cups of milk toward him.

"A happy memory of her, Doctor. I… misspoke."

She squeezed his wrist in apology. He turned his hand, slowly; she could have pulled away easily if she chose. But she allowed him to clasp her hand in his, enjoyed the gentle pressure of his fingers, and closed her eyes as he raised her hand and kissed her knuckles.

He released her after a moment and picked up the milk.

"My mother was Italian," he began, one hand steadily pouring milk into the butter and flour while the other stirred. "She was quite lovely; maintaining that loveliness was a matter of honor and pride for her, even… even while she carried my sister in her womb.

"In the mornings, before my lessons, I would sometimes bring her herbal tea to soothe her stomach. I was unreasonably proud of this duty; as I recall, I felt quite grown up to be trusted with such an important task.

"She would quiz me as she sipped the tea. When she rose and went to her dressing table, she would set me beside her on the bench and allow me to brush her hair. She would talk, then, of the responsibilities of a young gentleman and a big brother. I listened intently, determined to exceed her expectations. My father was a more… distant… presence; I am, I suppose, not unlike him in that. But my mother was quite emotional and affectionate, Clarice; I felt the warmth of her love in my life until the day she died."

The intimacy of his disclosure was not lost on her; it was a few moments before she could respond without fearing her voice would tremble or crack.

"She must have loved you very much," she murmured. "Now I know who to thank for your impeccable manners."

"Mmm. Not quite so impeccable, my dear. I've been shockingly forward with you at times."

"No more forward than I've been with you, Doctor."

And now they were on the edge of discussing the physical nature of their relationship – or lack thereof – and that wasn't where she wanted this day to go. He must have sensed it as well, she thought, as he spoke again.

"The béchamel is ready, Clarice. Step over here and add the cheese, hmm?"

His left hand continued to slowly stir with the spoon; he stepped back slightly, allowing her to slide into the gap on his right. Once she moved, his right arm brushed against her waist as he leaned into her slightly, reached past her to the countertop, and nudged one of the bowls forward.

"Chevre first, if you would."

She breathed out slowly, picked up the bowl, and scooped the crumbled cheese into the saucepan while he stirred. This was what she had wanted – this comfort, this sharing. She focused on ignoring the sparks between them, the flutter in her stomach, and let herself relax into him as they finished the sauce together.

He hummed softly between instructions. She hoped he was as contented as she. He deserved some measure of peace in his life, moments when thoughts of vigilance were not uppermost in his mind.

_Relax with me, Doctor. No – Hannibal._


	21. Chapter 21

The mushrooms and truffle shavings provided an agreeably aromatic savoriness to the baked macaroni and cheese, the doctor thought. It was all well and good to serve an American culinary staple, but certainly it could enhance the palate as well as comfort it, given the proper ingredients.

He noted Clarice's enjoyment as well, the lovely, drawn-out "mmmmm" resonating with her first bite. Of course, the taste might, in her mind, also be elevated by the cooperative culinary effort to produce it. She had done much of the work herself, with his guiding hands and quiet instructions overseeing the project. The close contact, the sense of contentment and relaxation that so pervaded her, seemed to sink into his skin as well, promising something for which even he had no words.

Their plates were quite nearly scraped clean now. Perhaps some of the remaining chocolate cheesecake would suit for dessert, as she had seemed rather taken with it, often indulging in a sliver with her breakfast.

"Have you ever been in love, Doctor?"

The question came with no warning beyond the silence that had preceded it; he had known she was thinking deeply, but upon what, well…. He had the shopkeeper to blame for this turn, he supposed.

"Love, Clarice? The word is so overused in the modern era as to be meaningless."

"Is that a 'no'?"

It was not, of course, and he sensed she would pursue the topic to its end. But what to tell her? The truth, always… simply in an appropriate context.

"I believed so, once. But I was young and mistaken."

She was studying him across the table as he answered.

"She didn't love you back? No… that's not it… or not only it…." She shook her head. "You really don't give much away, Doctor. Have you considered hanging a sign around your neck to indicate what you're thinking and feeling?"

His lips twitched. "I had not, no. Do you wish it of me?"

"No, I suppose I don't. Not enough of a challenge that way."

Yes, she did enjoy challenges – which suited him quite well, as he enjoyed presenting her with them.

"But… oh." Her eyes gleamed. "How did you know you were mistaken?"

"Perhaps the feeling diminished with time. Or perhaps, as you say, she rejected me."

"Those aren't mistakes, Doctor. You might have been in love and fallen out of it, or your love might have been unreturned, but neither of those would be reason for you to say you were mistaken." She was shaking her head, slowly, as her teeth tugged lightly at her lower lip. "To say that, you'd have to… you'd have to _know_. You know you weren't in love _then_, because you know what being in love _is_. So you _have_ felt it – but not until after the experience that turned out to be… _not_… it."

"A logical deduction, Clarice." His voice was free of any trace of pride, though he did so enjoy watching her mind at work.

"So you have been in love before."

"No." Would she see what was wrong with her phrasing?

"Are you… in love with me, now?"

Yes, she had seen, though asking the question she truly meant to ask had revealed her uncertainty, for all that she attempted to keep her tone light. Could he convey the swell of emotion he felt in her presence? What words could show her that he had not been in love _before_ – that it was a constant, ongoing experience that daily grew within him?

"The ocean does not speak to the moon of love, Clarice, yet its every action demonstrates the depths of its devotion. The moon rules over it utterly. It cannot escape her pull – nor does it wish to."

She watched him with narrowed eyes, considering, perhaps, how seriously to take his statement.

"This from the man who once implied that all of his thoughts spoke of love?"

Ah. She had troubled herself to look up _La Vita Nuova_ after receiving his letter, then. Perhaps something from later in the piece… _mmm, yes, that will suffice._

" '… when she goes by / Love strikes a chill in evil hearts, / so that all their thoughts freeze and perish: / and any man who suffers to stay and see her / becomes a noble soul, or else he dies.'"

"You're a romantic, Doctor." Her tone was fondly accusing, though her eyes couldn't entirely hide her slight startlement.

Was the depth of his feeling so surprising to her? Hmm. It had, he admitted, startled him at first – and he had had much more time to digest and reflect upon the development. Though the rest of the world might think him – think Hannibal the Cannibal – incapable of such emotion, surely Clarice did not.

"As all men ought to be, Clarice, when they find the one for whom their heart beats and their soul sings."

Her eyes filled then, neither with tears nor with the passion that so often brought them to the edge of disaster, but with a soft yearning that pierced him. _You know that I love you, Clarice. But you must believe – that I do, that you are deserving. That we both are. Until you believe, I will forever be standing in the hall, my love as useless to comfort you as my hand pressed to the door._

She inhaled sharply as she looked away. Her voice came quietly, uncertain.

"I think I'd like some music, Doctor."

He leashed his disappointment.

"Of course, Clarice. I'll put something on the stereo. Did you—"

"No, no, I didn't mean…." Her eyes caught his again; her yearning had not diminished. "Would you play for me?"

"Always," he murmured, taking her hand in his. "You need only ask."

* * *

><p>The doctor, it seemed, had taken her questioning as his theme. Already he had played Liszt – <em>Liebstraume<em> – and now he had gone from _Fur Elise_ to _Moonlight Sonata_. She wondered if she ought to be taking it as light mockery or god's-honest-truth. Maybe he felt she needed the reminder?

She sensed that for all that the doctor rarely _showed_ emotion, he _felt_ it deeply. He had discarded his usual subtlety today. Because it was likely their final day together? Because he knew she needed directness from him? Something substantive she could use to replace the armor he accused her of wearing? What would that feel like? To be wrapped in his love, to daily feel it sheltering her even as it urged her onward to her best self?

It was unfair to him that she couldn't return his declarations. _You could, you know. You could walk away from your life. You could armor him with your love. Hasn't he made himself vulnerable, stripped himself naked and presented you with his heart? What has this week been, if not that?_

Love and rage ran deeply in him, she thought, in equal measure, intertwined. As they did in her. She would hurt him; there was no way she could avoid it.

_He held a knife to your neck last night. You don't think he'll hurt you, too?_

She sank into memory and impression. His knowing eyes had pierced her more than the knife had. The blade had been smooth and oddly warm against her throat. She hadn't hesitated to lean into it; had her anger driven her to unwise action, or had she been so certain he wouldn't hurt her? His hand had been steady… until it hadn't. Until he had leapt away from her as if she'd burned him. As if they both had found something to fear in that moment.

His knife was a sleek instrument, one flowing curve with a lethal edge. It suited him; it was, she admitted, an elegant weapon in its utility. It was the same blade he had given her, and yet it wasn't.

The blade he had gifted her, useless as anything more than a paperweight in its glass coffin, was serrated. It had teeth.

His weapon was for the clean slice, the elegant slash; hers was for ripping and tearing, for sawing through and leaving ragged, gaping wounds behind. It was the weapon of a wild, frenzied thing.

_Because that's what you are. Only he's not afraid of it. That's just you._

_He wants me to be as… free… as he is. To make instinct the equal of reason and analysis. _

She shifted in her seat. She wanted to enjoy this night with him, not spend it berating herself once more for what she was or wasn't or might yet become. Whatever she had been, whatever she was now, whatever she would be… he wanted them all.

His face came to her unbidden, his intense stare and low, fierce words replaying in her memory: _I would not have left you behind._

The room drifted into silence as he paused in his playing. She rose from her seat, then, and retrieved the violin. He was perfection alone, but they could reach perfection together, too. Couldn't they? At least for one more night?

* * *

><p><strong>Note:<strong> The lines the doctor quotes are by Dante, from _La Vita Nuova_, in the third stanza of the poem in Section XIX.


	22. Chapter 22

The melancholy notes of Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9, No. 2, seemed an adequate reflection of their moods, the doctor thought. Clarice lowered the violin at last and rested her shoulder against his, though he faced the keys and she the room.

"It's getting late, Clarice, and I expect you'll have a long day of traveling ahead."

"You trying to shoo me off to bed, Doctor?" With her head turned slightly, it was as though she spoke directly into his ear.

"Merely a suggestion, my dear."

"Maybe I'll just move to the couch."

She was already dressed for it, he allowed; her insistence that a night in required the appropriate attire had meant that he, too, had dressed in pajamas and robe for their after-dinner concert. The sets matched; she had forgone her nightshirt in favor of the silk lounging pants and modestly cut accompanying top he had left for her in the bureau in her room.

"The settee is entirely too small to sleep on again, Clarice. You'll strain your muscles, and spending fifteen hours in economy traveling accommodations tomorrow will not improve their condition. You'll arrive in pain."

She rose and returned the violin and bow to their case.

"If you're so concerned, Doctor, you can always carry me to bed later. Right now, I'm not so tired and I don't want to leave."

She meant the music room, he knew, and yet she had handed him a lovely opening to broach the subject from which she still shied.

"If you don't wish to leave, then you have a choice to make, Clarice. You may 'disappear' while on vacation, or you may return to your current life with no one the wiser."

Her drop to the settee was, perhaps, less graceful than it might have been. The silence stretched. He studied the emotions as they crossed her face, a dizzying display of uncertainty and longing.

"I think... I think this isn't a decision I can make in an instant. This week has been…." She shook her head. "I don't have the words for it, Doctor. But I can't... You cloud my thoughts. Or clear them, maybe. I don't know. But I know I need... time... and... and distance."

A wise decision. Her emotions had been running high this week, in all directions; she needed time for calm consideration. Not the answer he would have preferred; no, he would not delude himself in this. Had she chosen to stay, his fingers would even now be dancing over her soft, supple flesh, his lips covering her own. He quickly closed off such thoughts. Her needs must take precedence, being deeply rooted and more conflicted than his own.

"You have both, Clarice, of course." Did she believe he would hold her here? Did she want him to? He studied her posture and her expression; tension ran through her, yes, but it did not subside as he might have expected were his answer the reassurance she needed.

"I know, Doctor." Her voice was soft, her eyes knowing as they met his. "You've already done the math."

He raised an eyebrow. "Would you have me show my work, Clarice?"

She shook her head.

"No need, Doctor. How about I show mine instead?"

"By all means, my dear. May I never refuse an offer to walk through your thoughts."

He knew, by her small smile, that his words had pleased her. Still, it was gratifying to hear her admit to such.

"Charmer." Her tongue brushed her lips; she took a deeper breath and resettled her shoulders.

She had called him that once before, on Monday morning, he recalled. Her intonation was a near match as well – a warm, fond caress of her mouth.

But charm was not a virtue in her mind, he expected. No doubt she had rejected the flattery of many men since reaching adulthood. He suspected she found it off-putting and false. Why, then, say such so warmly to him?

Unless her very use of the word in that tone was acceptance, approval even, of his attentions. Her way of telling him that this gift – this allowance – was for him only. It was, perhaps, as close to a declaration of love as Clarice Starling was able to make. _At this time. Who knows what the future holds?_

She raised her chin and began to speak.

"If you truly believed I was a threat to your continued safety, you wouldn't bother holding me here or taking me with you, Doctor. You'd kill me to keep my silence, take what you wanted from my body, and depart. I doubt even the neighbors would notice anything amiss."

She was, in most respects, correct in her assessment of his character. But she had undervalued herself in the equation. Given any other option – even, he admitted, the distasteful necessity of detaining her against her will – he would not kill her. She was unlike any other, a cousin to his own mix of instinct and reason that somehow, somehow, had slipped into his mind like his sister's tiny hand grasping his own. This time, he would not let go… even if that meant allowing her her freedom, as she had allowed him his.

"As... important... as I may be to you, your freedom is paramount. And even if you trust me to keep your secrets, you wouldn't leave your freedom to chance. An ill-timed remark, a nosy co-worker looking into my vacation... no, there are too many variables to account for on my end. Which means that when I leave here, you will, too. This place" – she glanced around the room, her hand fluttering at her side – "pleasant as it has been, is not a permanent residence. I would venture to guess that you rented it to ensure privacy and security for us both.

"There's no danger for you in letting me go – not because I'm trustworthy, but because you've engineered it to be safe. You knew I might not stay willingly; courtesy demanded you provide an alternate solution. If I hadn't known that, Doctor, I wouldn't have come in the first place."

All true, he allowed – though he had, of course, also put measures in place that were not so courteous as she imagined. Had he judged it necessary and suitable to his ends to gain her cooperation by holding her here, he would have done so. The pharmaceuticals were well stocked. But his reluctance to use such an alternative with her made it an unpleasant prospect, a tableau that would have colored their future interactions. Winning her to him without the need to resort to such aids would be a much more satisfying challenge.

"I'm not afraid of you, Doctor. I haven't been for a long time now. I know you. And yes, I know that sounds ridiculous. I know that I know hardly anything about you. I know that there are things you will never share with me. I know there are things I'm not ready to hear. But I do know _you_. I know the man you are. I might forget sometimes, especially when you make me angry" – she tossed him a wry grin; she was, of course, well aware of her penchant for anger – "but I'm not afraid of you."

She paused, and he sensed she was not quite done. Perhaps she recognized–

"Myself, now, that's another story." She laughed, a hint of bitterness emerging. "I sure as hell scare myself sometimes, Doctor."

Ah. Yes, she knew. She was, indeed, wild and unpredictable, driven by impulses and emotion that wrapped like vines around the sturdy pillars of rational thought, of justice and fairness, that guided her. She would protect others, even him, from threats – and she counted herself one of those threats. Was that why she could not stay? Did she fear her own effect on him? Perhaps she feared her desire itself, judging it improper, a danger to them both.

He could not convince her with words, and he _would not_ convince her with shameful seduction. Thus, as she requested, time and distance. They must do his work for him. Her own mind must do the work. He could not, with certainty, reach the desired outcome in any other way.

Of course, he admitted, it was possible that he could not reach the desired outcome at all. _Do you know the power you wield, Clarice? Does that, at the last, make you tremble? Is it that knowledge that fuels the tension in your limbs, the softness in your voice?_


	23. Chapter 23

Clarice woke in her own bed, the covers tucked comfortably around her. It wasn't until she was standing in the shower that she recalled she hadn't fallen asleep there.

No, she had fallen asleep in the music room with the doctor's voice for her lullaby, the smooth rhythm of Italian poetry flowing over his tongue as he read to her. She hadn't wanted to sleep at all, hadn't wanted to give up a single moment in his company, the moments she would cling to as she returned to her job. Her life. Reality.

The week had been a beautiful and dangerous dream. But if she tried to hold onto it… what if it turned out to be nothing more than that? Clouds that shifted and changed into something new even while her eyes strained to force them to hold their shape. Given the shape of her dreams this week… well.

She packed swiftly, not allowing her hands to linger over the things she couldn't take back with her. She'd hardly removed anything from her suitcase since she had arrived; there hadn't been a need to. The doctor had thoughtfully provided everything she could have needed.

She thought of the box buried deep in her closet in the house she shared with Ardelia. A box of gifts she couldn't display, lest Dee ask awkward questions about a Lecter shrine gracing her bedroom. The knife in that box still lay in its glass bed, as she did.

Was he disappointed in her? How long would he wait for her to outgrow this need for externally defined ethics? He believed she had the potential to do so, she knew, but she herself wasn't so certain. There had to be someone more capable – some objective sense of order and justice in the world – someone who wouldn't fail the lambs.

It was a long walk down the stairs with her bags in tow. Though she carried no more than she had arrived with, it all seemed heavier.

The doctor was at work in the kitchen; it was a natural sight to her now, familiar and expected. By tonight she would be back to takeout and false smiles. She paused to watch him in his element, graceful, no wasted motions, and nearly laughed as she realized she was considering asking him to dance with her. In the kitchen. Without music. While breakfast burned.

_He'd do it, if you asked. You know he would._

He slid a pan into the oven and turned.

"Good morning, Clarice. Breakfast will be just a few minutes. Would you care for juice?"

"Yes, thank you, Doctor." His voice got her moving again; she crossed the room and deposited her bags beside the back door. He had already removed the pitcher from the fridge and begun pouring her a glass by the time she took her seat in the breakfast nook.

She toyed with the glass for a moment, aware of his scrutiny. When she looked up, she meant to ask what they were having for breakfast; it smelled delicious. That was not, however, the sentence that emerged.

"You carried me to bed, Doctor."

"I took you at your word, Clarice." His head tipped to the right. "Was the invitation issued in error?"

"No… no, I…." It was no wonder she was stumbling through a reply, given that she hadn't intended to raise the subject at all. "I _like_ that you did it, Doctor. I just…."

She shrugged.

"You continue to feel as though you should not."

"Yeah," she said softly, aware that he would hear the note of defeat in her voice. "Yeah, part of me still does."

"Then I expect we'll need to depart for the train station after breakfast, Clarice."

His tone was unreadable. He turned back to the counter, busying himself with cleaning up, presumably waiting for breakfast to finish baking. If her answer had disturbed him, it didn't show in his movements.

But it didn't matter that she could neither hear nor see a negative reaction. She felt it. She had cut him just as surely as if she held his Harpy in her hand. _Nine years of living in a box didn't hurt him as much as I do every time I open my mouth._

* * *

><p>Her mood was subdued in the car, though that was to be expected. He refrained from attempting to persuade her to stay. Were she not truly committed to the idea, she would come to resent him, forever plagued by might-have-beens. He would spare her that, at least, if he could.<p>

He allowed himself to think of her as she had been last night, clearly reluctant to part from his company. The music had been lovely, and their talk had been… promising… but it had been her shyly voiced request for a bit of reading and the ensuing closeness that he most treasured.

The music room had a very modest library, primarily in German and French; he had added some few books, including the one she had pressed into his hands, admitting as she did that it truly didn't matter _what_ he read – it was merely the sound of his voice that she craved. Mmm. No, that was not the word she had used, but it was fitting, he thought. Her eyes had shown her hunger.

He had thought to take the chair he had rested in the night before, after he had coaxed her to dreamless sleep with his playing, but she had guided him to the settee and curled up beside him, the silk of her sleepwear a whisper-soft rustle against his own. She had tucked her feet against the sofa arm and laid her head against his shoulder.

He had shifted his arm to allow her still closer, his hand finding the graceful curve of her neck and lightly stroking her skin. Her heart had beat as a hummingbird's, then, but her voice feigned haughty amusement as she informed him he could begin the reading at any time.

Obediently, he had read to her in Italian from Petrarch, _Il Canzoniere_, a crown of Italy rivaling Dante himself. She had relaxed into him as he read, her warmth and weight and drowsy happiness a balm to his soul.

…_quando i' fui preso, et non me ne guardai, / ché i be' vostr'occhi, donna, mi legaro__._

He had selfishly left her sleep there, tucked against his side, for hours. The room's large front window faced east; he had barely beaten the sun's rays when finally he had gathered her slumbering body in his arms and carried her to her bed, pulling the covers gently over her. He had not joined her, though the wish had been within him.

And now he would have to let her go. She allowed him his courtesies this morning: carrying her things, opening her door, guiding her with the lightest touch of his hand on her back as they entered the station. Her train stood waiting on the track; it would return her to Paris, to the plane that would carry her far from him, to the unknown intervals of time and distance that would divide them once more.

He set her bags by her feet and gave her his full attention. They had made significant progress, he knew; if only he could be as certain that the dullness and tedium, the frustration and anger of her daily life would not erase the gains of this brief interlude. No. She was a warrior. She would find the strength – would find her way to him eventually. _Please let it be soon, my dear. _

Her eyes roamed over his face, seemingly memorizing his features. Her lips parted slightly; a spark of a question grew in her eyes. For a moment, he believed she might lean in and kiss him.

But she shook her head slightly, in self-denial perhaps, and instead asked, softly, "Why are you waiting for me, Doctor?"

"Oh, Clarice." He allowed mingled fondness and sadness to bleed into his expression, his gaze intent on hers. "When you are able to answer that question for yourself – when you needn't even ask anymore – then all my waiting will be over, hmm?"

He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, relishing the spark that soothed even as it burned.

"You needn't rush. You need only trust yourself and let yourself be guided by your true voice. Have confidence in yourself, Clarice, as I do."

He kissed her forehead, a benediction, and nodded toward the train.

"It's time to go, my dear."

Her teeth tugged at her lower lip.

"We always seem to be saying goodbye, Doctor."

"Perhaps someday we won't have to, Clarice. You know how to find me when you're ready."

He stepped back, imprinting the image of her confused loneliness in his mind, ignoring the twinge that burned in his chest, and walked away without a second glance.

* * *

><p><strong>Note:<strong> The lines the doctor recalls in Italian are by Petrarch, from _Il Canzoniere_, Sonnet No. 3: "...that I was captured, and did not defend myself, / because your lovely eyes had bound me, Lady."

**Author's note:** Yes, this is the end of _Playing House_. To those who have come this far, my deepest thanks for reading and responding. I'm always fascinated by how readers interpret a story, and I do try to respond to every review or PM I receive, so feel free to let me know what you thought, whether positive, negative, or neutral.

And no, I'm not done playing with this couple yet. I have a handful of scenes left to write and a final edit to do before I can start posting the sequel, _Finding Peace_. So if there are readers out there who are still interested in continuing with me on this adventure, despite all of the angst I've just put the good doctor and his lady through, do speak up.

BG


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